


Dominance - The Finale

by bjfic_archivist



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-14
Updated: 2008-06-12
Packaged: 2018-12-27 01:04:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 42
Words: 64,219
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12070572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bjfic_archivist/pseuds/bjfic_archivist
Summary: Justin never met Brian, he was never bashed, he graduated from Dartmouth. His life is about to change.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from IrishCaelan, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Brian_Justin_Fanfiction_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in September 2017. I posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Brian/Justin Fanfiction Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/bjfic/profile).

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**31 July 2012** **, Tuesday,** **2:00 p.m.**

  
  
Damn! I think this plane’s circling Pittsburgh International. I swear I saw that school and its stadium go by 15 minutes ago. If my watch is right – questionable – we’re about 10 minutes past our scheduled arrival time. Oh, well, I’m not sure I want to be in Pittsburgh anyway, so what’s another 15 minutes in the air?   
  
Chicago was very, very good for me, even if things between Robert and me were getting a little strained recently. Robert himself is a sweetheart, but the baggage he comes with was stressing our relationship.   
  
First of all, I understand all about being African-American (I am so PC!) and gay, but in the end, I was tired of being Robert’s roommate. For about three years, I waited for his family to wake up to the realization that we shared more than refrigerator space, but it never happened. They saw that we each had our own bedroom and our own bathroom, so of course we shared an apartment because we couldn’t afford such a nice place individually. Yeah, right.   
  
Then there was the visiting. The Jenkins’ are sweet people, but they had a tendency to just stop by, almost any time of the day or night, and stay and stay and stay. Every time Robert’s mother, father, sister, or brother buzzed to come up, he spent the two or three minutes until they got off the elevator dashing around the condo looking for evidence of our relationship. Sometimes that meant messing up his bed so that they wouldn’t guess we slept together. Mostly, though, he just left the damn bed unmade, which got on my nerves. I know, I know, I’m a bit of neat freak. It’s not a crime.  
  
Then there was the work I like to do at home, without the TV blaring in the living room and assorted Jenkins yelling back at the Chicago Bulls and dropping popcorn all over the floor or…worse…peanut shells. But forget all that. I’ll miss him and his warm body next to me in bed and his people smarts. I’m good at statistics and sketching, Robert understands what makes people tick.

  
Never mind, no more bitching. I need to look forward, forward to being an Assistant Professor in the Economics Department at Carnegie-Mellon. If only I weren’t so apprehensive about being in the Pitts, back ‘home’ again. Shit. What the hell is my problem? First it’s bitching about Robert, now I’m queening out about the Pitts. You’d think I was a kid, not 29 years old, with three peer-reviewed articles under my belt and one-third of a book written. Maybe I’d feel better about going back if my father would get over my homosexuality and at least be civil…. You’d think he’d want to flaunt my academic achievements to his friends, but apparently not.   
  
Hell, there’s that school and the stadium again. I wish they’d make an announcement and let us know what’s happening. The plane’s jumping around a bit, and I can see black clouds and rain off to one side – my right – haven’t a clue what point on the compass that is – so maybe this is a weather delay.  
  
Where was I? Oh, yeah, being positive about Carnegie-Mellon. I’ll always remember the University of Chicago fondly. After all, it’s where I got my Masters and Ph.D, where I was appointed to the faculty when I graduated, where I made a ton of friends and where I had some great mentors. However, I was the one who started looking around after only three years as an Assistant Professor. I was the one who let it be known, at last year’s American Economics Association meeting, oh so tactfully and oh so professionally, that I would entertain offers, especially offers for a tenure-track Associate Professorship. And I was the one who, looking at the offers from both the University of Virginia and Carnegie Mellon… 

  
Wait a second…there’s the announcement. About time.

We _are_ circling, and it _is_ a weather delay. We will be landing on the next pass and should be exiting the plane within half an hour. I wonder if my mother will meet me at the airport. I sent her my flight info….

Oh, Jesus, I just saw the most beautiful man. He was sitting across the aisle, one row up from me, window seat. While the pilot was still speaking, he stood up, stepped past the guy in the aisle seat – ah, the joys of flying first class – to get something out of the overhead compartment. Tall, slender, full head of chestnut hair, wearing $2,000 worth of perfectly fitting gray suit.

As soon as he got up and turned to maneuver into the aisle, he saw me and drilled me with an amazing pair of hazel eyes. I was staring back…I can’t even say my gaydar was going off…I didn’t need gaydar…there was no question about his interest. His eyes were already fucking me by the time he was past his seatmate…and I was licking my lips and catching my breath in response.

He got a briefcase out of the overhead, turned toward me, and murmured, “I’m being met at the airport…I have an urgent meeting…sorry.” And he sat back down again. What the fuck?

The plane is starting its descent…more later? Probably.


	2. Chapter 2

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**7/31/2012 – 1:15PM**

 

I’m somewhere between Chicago and Pittsburgh, running late as usual. Now, from what I am overhearing from the cockpit there may be a weather delay before we can get on the ground. Just my fucking luck. 

 

Leo Brown is going to pay handsomely for this little last minute jaunt I had to make to the Second City. For a straight, elderly, white man he sure has taken a curiously keen interest in hot Asian boys. The Pacific Rim market is booming, and for some reason Leo demanded a meeting to hand pick the models before we could run with the latest campaign. Five men arrived, two made the cut. I shouldn’t complain. While Leo dined with the winners, I spent the better part of last night consoling the also-rans. I’ve found it’s good business policy to leave the hired hands alone, but once Leo nixed them they were fair game. 

 

I’ve always liked the Chicago club scene, and last night Matthew, Lui, Park, and I made quite the foursome at Sidetrack. Emmett would have creamed himself since it turned out to be their ever-popular Show Tunes Night. Not something I’ll be hosting at Babylon anytime soon, but definitely a good gimmick to get queers into a bar on a Monday evening. I was disappointed at first but after seven or eight drinks, “Oklahoma” never sounded so good. In addition, it has been my observation that Asian men are usually raised right: both fastidious and attentive. These three didn’t disappoint. 

 

Now they’re on their way back to their respective homes to pound the pavement while Brown’s new “Faces of the East” are sitting well behind me in Economy. Speaking of sitting behind me, there’s a blond twink just a row or two back making my dick hard. He was concentrating on some textbook when I took my seat so we have yet to make eye contact. No wedding ring, which, although it’s never stopped me before, is always a good sign, and he appears to be traveling alone. I certainly hope he needs to use the restroom before we land. If not, I’m going to have to think of some way to get a second look. If it’s as good as the first one, Leo Brown is really going to owe me. Instead of making a new friend this evening, I’ll be spending quality time with Kinnetik’s copywriters. 

 

Leo insists on rough layouts by Thursday and copy changes faxed to his office tonight. He’ll be picking them apart with his staff tomorrow and demanding rewrites while I’m at the photo shoot. I called Cynthia from the airport in Chicago. She’ll have a car waiting for me whenever this piece of shit lands, and she has Tim, Jamie and several members of the art department on standby. It’s going to be another late night. 

 

It’s days like this that make me wonder why I ever pitched the account for Kinnetik in the first place. Okay, so maybe the fact that I’m 38, and it will allow me to retire by the time I’m 45 has something to do with it. Forty five. Jesus fucking Christ.

 

Oh, shit. There goes pretty boy, and I had my face in the computer screen. His passing did provide me with a glimpse of one of the most magnificent backsides I’ve ever seen though. Considering the number of asses I’ve viewed, that’s a fairly monumental statement. Guess I’ll just sit here for a moment and try to make eye contact when he returns…………….

 

And the little bastard walked right by. This has turned into quite a challenge. Good thing I have a briefcase in the overhead. I’ll drop it on the fucker if I have to. He’s not getting off this plane without knowing what he missed.


	3. Chapter 3

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**31 July 2012** **, Tuesday,** **9:30 p.m.**  
  
That guy on the plane – he was the second person out the door. He was on his feet before the ‘unbuckle seatbelts’ announcement was finished, grabbing his briefcase and heading for the door. I had my card out…I’m interested…but never had a chance to hand it to him. I’m surprised he didn’t give me his; I know the sexual current was crackling between us. That rapid exit was probably his way of not pursuing something (me!) that he shouldn’t, for one reason or another…like a committed relationship. Damn.   
  
Oh, well. I just called Ben – he was very cordial and asked me to come for dinner tomorrow night. He’d like me to meet his partner, Michael, and maybe a couple of neighbors…said that they should be able to fill me in on where to rent or buy. I accepted and said I was interested in anything they could tell me about where to live, shop, etc., but I had to remind him that my mother _is_ a realtor.   
  
Ben’s probably the one person who made me pick Carnegie-Mellon over UVa. When I was here interviewing, Newton-Miller (my new boss) asked Ben to take me out to lunch. That gave me the opportunity to ask some questions about how comfortable I’d be here. (I was completely comfortable in Chicago.) I asked him, “Is the school gay-friendly?” and Ben thought a minute, then said, “I wouldn’t say gay-friendly. I’d say gay-neutral. You’ll get treated just like everybody else, no better, no worse.” Which is exactly what I wanted to hear. I’m looking forward to seeing him again.   
  
Mom met me at the airport, by the way. As soon as I got past the security area, there she was, beaming and waving and crying a little. God, she looks great. Hard to believe she’s 55! She takes care of herself, but there are also some damn good genes at work. I hope I inherited them…I think I did…we look a lot alike if that counts for anything.   
  
At any rate, she drove me to the Ramada Inn. I asked if she wanted to pick up Molly, and we’d all go to dinner, but she said Molly was bringing The New Guy home tonight. She just had time for a cup of coffee in the nearest Starbucks before, she said, “I have to go home and lick the baseboards clean so that the house passes Matt’s inspection.”   
  
I laughed, but I thought that Mom must be glad that one of us turned out straight.   
  
Once we got done catching up, (“How was your flight?” “How’s Tucker doing?” “Do you like Matt?”), Mom sat back and gave her head a little shake. “I still can’t believe you’re a professor at Carnegie-Mellon, and in Economics, of all things. I was so sure you’d end up doing something artistic.”   
  
I said, “Well, I have, sort of. You know the story. I read the lit and I knew that Dartmouth had a Studio Arts Department, so I thought I’d just take all my electives in Art and maybe do a double major. Too bad I didn’t read the catalog carefully enough to realize that undergrads can only take two courses, Painting 1 and Sculpture 1. You know I took them both, Painting when I was a Junior and Sculpture in the Fall of my Senior year, but by that time….”  
  
“I know, I know. You’d gotten interested in Economics.” She smiled and shook her head. “All that math, Justin…. “  
  
“Mom, I’ve told you before, I have always had pretty good math skills – I needed them to get 1500 in my SATs, right? And, truly, I have the skills I need to do my sort of slicing and dicing of the numbers. My biggest problem is finding usable data. You know I’m not interested in interest rate fluctuations or the correlations between stock market activity and hemlines. I like testing all the assumptions people take for granted. That’s where I’m making my name and why I got recognized at the last AEA meeting.”

 

Her eyes filled up a little, and she patted my hand. “I’m so proud of you,” she said.

  
This is at least the third time I’ve given her that spiel, and I’m not sure I convinced her this time, either, but she looked happier when I finished.  
  
We made arrangements to get together on Thursday – I’m going in to Human Resources tomorrow and she has a meeting tomorrow night – and she said, “I have a couple of places I want to show you, and one, in particular, I think you’ll like.”  
  
I said, “You remember I want something with good light, right?”  
  
“Yes, and I’m so glad you are still painting.”  
  
I nodded. “Me, too.” I laughed, “In my spare time between 1:00 and 3:00 in the morning.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**8/1/12** **,** **10:15 AM**

 

Business. “It’s just business, Michael.” How many fucking times have I told him that? It’s quarter after ten, and this is the first chance I’ve had to actually sit down with a cup of coffee and listen to three days worth of messages. What do I hear? Interspersed with the usual hang-ups, recorded solicitations, appointment reminders from Cynthia and one call from Lindsay, I have seven messages from Michael about a dinner he is planning to host at his house tonight.

 

Tonight, for Christ sake! Who the fuck plans a social gathering for a Wednesday evening? I’m actually going to make note of this so that some day, when he grows up, I can attempt to prove to him what an annoying asshole he was. 

 

First message, Sunday 2:12 PM – “Ah, hi, Brian, it’s me. I know you are probably getting ready for your trip to Chicago but call me before you leave OK? I’m trying to get a dinner together.” 

 

All right, I heard this one when he left it, I really did. He’s planning a dinner. No emergency, right? If I can make it, I will, but I wasn’t going to fall into the trap of confirming until I found out what was happening on the Brown account.

 

Second one, Sunday 4:34 PM – “Michael here, Ben and I are leaving to go grocery shopping. So if you’re gonna call in the next hour or so, call my cell.” 

 

_Don’t worry, Michael, I’m not going to call._

 

Third, Sunday 7:54 PM – “Where are you? Did you leave already? I’m trying your cell.”

 

_I’m home, packing. Thanks for the warning, cell phone is off._

 

Forth, Sunday 7:55 PM – “Why aren’t you answering your cell? Call me.”

 

_Because it’s turned off and no._

Fifth, Monday 6:33 AM – “Brian, pick up, you haven’t left for the airport yet, have you? We’re planning a dinner over here, and we can do it on Wednesday or Thursday but Wednesday would work better for us, so let me know when you’ll be back.”

 

_No, but I was in the shower. I know you are having a dinner. You’ve probably got that posted on a reader board at the airport by now. I don’t care when you have it. Talk to you later. Much later._

 

Sixth, Monday 8:14 AM – “Hi, it’s Michael. I guess you must be on the plane because this went right to your voice mail. Call me when you get a break in Chicago.” 

 

_Right._

 

Seventh, Tuesday 2:28 PM – “It’s me again. I called Cynthia, and she said you would be back at the office anytime now. Dinner’s at 7 tomorrow night. Us, the neighbors and some guy Ben works with. He’s new in town and gay. You never know!”

 

_Bad Cynthia, and since when do I need Michael to set me up with a blind date? That’s fucked. Monty, Eli, Michael, Ben and some new academic type? Thanks for letting me know. Now I’ll be sure to miss dinner._

 

I have to call him, though, or this nonsense will never end. I’ll have fifteen more messages right up until 7:30 tonight, and then I’ll start accumulating the ‘Mikey’s attempt at making Brian feel guilty’ ones. 

 

 

“Red Cape Comics, Michael speaking”

“It’s me.”

 

“Brian! Where have you been? I’ve been calling you since Sunday!”

“Yes, I’m acutely aware of that.”

 

“So are you coming tonight?”

 

“Can’t”

 

“What now?”

 

_Even though I was never a boy scout, twenty-five years of dealing with Michael has taught me the importance of being prepared._

“Problem at Babylon. I have to be there early.”

 

_I wasn’t lying. There is a problem at Babylon lately. It’s called lack of fresh meat. But that doesn’t mean I need my dorky best friend to set me up with some four-eyed faggot._

“Can’t Ted handle it?”

 

“Nope, there are some things only the boss can do. You know that. It’s just business, Michael. Besides, he’s going to some opera shit with Blake. So, you will have to make merry with your lovely neighbors and the new kid on the block without me.”

 

“But we haven’t gotten together in a long while, Brian.”

 

“Well, if you want to see me, stop by Babylon sometime. I’ll even waive the cover charge for you, dear.” 

 

“Okay, we’ll be there on Friday.”

 

“Promises, promises.”

 

“I mean it, we will. Ben and I are due for a night out. I’ll see you then.”

 

“Okay…Later.” 

 

Mission accomplished, disaster averted. Time to get back to work.

 


	5. Chapter 5

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**1 August 2012** **,** **11:30 p.m.**

Just back from an interesting dinner with the Novotny-Bruckners. I was a little surprised at Ben’s partner, Michael. Ben’s got such an analytical, controlled approach to life, so I wasn’t expecting Michael to be so…so…lively and emotional. I’m not sure why I was surprised – don’t they say opposites attract? – but I was.

As soon as I was settled in and had a glass in my hand, Michael had to show me a picture of ‘my son, the doctor.’ Seems that their adopted son, Hunter, is just starting med school. Good-looking boy, and both Michael and Ben seem to like his fiancée. Then I had to see pictures of Michael’s daughter, Jenny Rebecca, who lives with her mothers in Toronto. She looks just like Michael: curly black hair and an impish expression on her face. Cute kid.

Their neighbors, Monty and Eli, came over for dinner. Monty is African-American and seems pretty down-to-earth; I liked him. Eli...not sure...the jury's still out on him. He wanted to talk about a local neighborhood improvement organization and the street fair they are having in September, not topics I had any interest in or could contribute to. I was sitting across from Monty, so I started up a second conversation. I told him about Robert and how far in the closet he was. “Even though we lived together for three years, his family still thinks we’re just economizing.” Monty screwed up his face sympathetically, and I continued, “Robert has quite a thriving couture business…gowns and lingerie, mostly for drag queens…but the sign outside his shop says, ‘Custom Alterations.’ I don’t know if either of his parents have ever stopped by to see what he’s altering.”  Monty shook his head. “There’s a lot of denial of homosexuality in the African-American community. I’ve run up against it myself.” I said, “So I found out. Rob’s built up a loyal clientele, so moving here with me wasn’t really an option. Neither of us were ready to tackle a commuter relationship, so I guess I’m on the loose again.”  There was one of those sudden lulls that occur in group conversations, and my last words rang out clearly into the silence.  
That got everybody’s attention, and the conversation veered off to, “Who can we fix Justin up with?” There were some apparently serious suggestions, then Michael said, “How about Brian?” with this mischievous expression on his face.

Ben shook his head and said, “Un-unh. I don’t think so.” I couldn’t figure out what the funny little smile on his face meant.

Eli was more direct. He said, “Somehow, I don’t see Justin with an overage club boy.”

Michael said, “Brian is not…”

“Eli, that’s unfair.” Ben over-rode Michael. “Brian owns Babylon, so of course he’s there a lot, but it’s his business, after all. Brian’s the kind of guy who, if he does something, he does it well. If he owns a club, it’s going to be the most glittery, most sought-after club in Pittsburgh. And Babylon is.”

“Thank you, Ben,” Michael said.

Eli turned to me. “Are you much into the club scene?”

“No, not really. Not at all, actually.”

Michael said, “That’s too bad, because Brian is a great guy, and I think he’d really like you. He’ll never admit it, but I think he’s ready to settle down, and you’d be perfect for him.”

Eli sputtered, “Settle down? Brian Kinney? The Brian Kinney we all know and love? I don’t think so. You’re deluding yourself, Michael. Besides, even if he were ready to settle down, who’d put up with his tricking and drinking and drugging? He is not partner material, not by any means.”

Michael’s face was turning red. “Brian’s a successful business man, he’s really smart, he’s a good friend, he’s very good-looking…hell, he’s as sexy as….”

Ben cut Michael off again. “Brian and Michael have been best friends for 25 years, so….”

“So I defend him. So?”

You know how, when somebody says you shouldn’t have something, you start to want it? I was intrigued.

“What’s he look like?” I asked.

“He’s tall, slender, has brown hair and brown eyes….”

“Hazel,” said Ben.

“O.K., hazel.”

I thought, _No. Couldn’t be_. “Does he travel much?”

“No, I wouldn’t say so,” Ben said.

Michael shook his head at Ben. “He does travel. Don’t you remember? He was in Chicago this week, meeting with that guy from Brown Athletics. He spent Monday night there and came back yesterday.”

Right. I knew that. I think I’ll be checking out Babylon. 


	6. Chapter 6

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**2 August 2012** **, Thursday** **7:45 p.m.**  
  
I’ve had a long, productive, _interesting_ day.  
  
Mom picked me up at 9:00, and she took me to see a house (too big), a high-rise condo (no place to paint), and a garden-style condo (too far from Carnegie-Mellon). Then she said, “This one I think you’ll like. It’s a loft at 6th and Tremont. I know that’s the right neighborhood, and the light is very good.”   
  
The building is an old warehouse. We took the original, industrial elevator to the third floor. The loft Mom showed me is not only for sale, it’s empty. The previous owner and tenant recently relocated to Texas.

  
This is an apartment that makes a statement, and the statement is “cutting edge design.’ I liked it immediately. As soon as you enter, a powder room/laundry room is to your right. Next, also on your right, is the kitchen. The ceilings in this part of the loft are about eight or nine feet high, allowing room for a loft bedroom and bath above the kitchen/bathroom area. Once you get past the kitchen, however, the ceilings soar up another ten feet at least. All the piping and ductwork is exposed. The piece de résistance is the fireplace. On your left, it is constructed of handsome grey stone blocks, and the hearth itself is enclosed with a black screen. The chimney runs up the wall and is, of course, exposed. It disappears through the ceiling and up through the fourth floor tenant’s walls, I guess. The wall behind it is painted an off-white, but I have plans for that. Beyond the fireplace, the space opens up another ten feet, with more huge windows that flood the room with beautiful light. There is plenty of space to serve as a studio and still have room for my computer workstation, living room seating and a table and chairs.  
  
Mom and I went back to her office and ran the numbers, and it looks like I can afford it. They’re asking $479,500, but Mom thinks they’ll be open to a low-ball offer, so I bid $425,000. I’d like to move in as quickly as possible, so I stopped by the Farmers and Merchants Bank, where I had a savings account as a kid, to talk to a lending officer about a mortgage. With my more-than-20% down payment…stock market’s been good to me…I should qualify with no problem. I’m pushing them for an approval as quickly as possible. I’m not suffering, living at the Ramada, but I’d like to get settled.  
  
After some lunch, I went to school to finish some paperwork and meet a couple of my new colleagues. While I was there, Mom called. She said the sellers countered with $445,000, and I told her to accept it. I think it’s a bargain. It took me a while to get away, but when I could, I went back to Mom’s office, signed the Agreement of Sale, and called the bank. I got the keys to the loft - my home (almost) – and asked her if she had a tape measure I could borrow. I knew she’d have one: Jennifer Taylor, the Complete Realtor.  
  
When I got to 6th and Tremont, I struggled a little with the unfamiliar lock. Before I could get the door fully open, a masculine voice said, “Hold the door, would you?”  
  
I turned to look…and it was tall, slim, and sexy from the plane. The look I got on my face must have been reflected on the man’s face for a flash, before he got his shock under control. “Well,” he said, “if it isn’t the pretty child from the plane.”   
  
Now, I may not look like 29, but…dressed as I was, in academic-casual…I don’t think I look like a child, either. I said, as coldly as possible while staring at his amazing face, “Excuse me?”  
  
He was holding the door for me, so I went in and started wrestling with the elevator. The man stepped past me and pulled the door up. “What floor?” he said.  
  
“Three.” I thought about his hasty exit from the plane, I thought about last night’s dinner discussion…is he Brian Kinney?…and couldn’t decide exactly what I wanted to say to him. The elevator lurched to a stop on the third floor, and I was forced into speech. “What was with the quick exit from the plane Tuesday?”  
  
He looked mildly surprised. “I had a meeting. The plane was late. I was late. I ran.”  
  
“You didn’t have an extra second to give me your card? You _were_ interested….”  
  
“For a minute there I was interested, yes. Then I remembered I had a fucking car waiting for me. You’re very pretty, but my meeting was urgent. ”  
  
 _Pretty?_ I could feel my blood pressure rising. “What the hell! Pretty? I am not pretty. What fucking condescension!”

  
He said, “Pretty. And uses big words.” Then, “Are you getting off here? This is the third floor.”  
  
I moved so that my body blocked the descent of the elevator door. “I am 29 years old, I am a professor of Economics at Carnegie-Mellon, and yes, I use a lot of big words. ” I gritted my teeth.  
  
“Listen. It’s past 6:00, I’ve had a long day, and I want to go home. Either get off the damn elevator and let it go up, or get all the way on and I’ll take you up to my loft and fuck you. One or the other. Make up your mind.”   
  


“All right.” I was not going anywhere with that sarcastic son-of-a-bitch…well, not tonight, anyway. I went up on my toes, grabbed his head, and pulled his mouth down to mine. My urge was to dominate, to force the arrogant bastard to realize what he was missing, but that logical part of my brain that almost always functions, whispered, Seduce. So I very logically fought my impulse, and kissed him lightly. I pinched his lower lip between my lips, licking at it, teasing with my tongue. His mouth softened and his lips parted, and I thrust my tongue strongly into his mouth as far as I could, starting to tongue-fuck him. For a moment I felt his response, then I pulled back and stepped back onto the landing. I stood still for a moment and looked at him, catching my breath and adjusting my pants.

He gave me a little smirk. “Nice meeting you, Professor,” he said and pulled the elevator door down.  
  
As the elevator rattled its way up to the top floor, I thought, Brian Kinney…or whoever…this isn’t over. And it’s not going to be over until I have you under me, panting, eager, and moaning, “Justin, Justin.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**8/3/12, 11:48 AM**

 

Well, I’m certainly paying today for the time I took off yesterday. I got in early and cleared sixteen messages before the rescheduled 9:00 staff meeting. At 10 I had a conference call with Leo, (he’s finally satisfied with the mock up), and then personally ran the disks containing the new fall commercials over to Susan at Mercers. I couldn’t stay to see her reaction, but I am assuming at this point, no news is good news. 

 

I’m busy but energized. Business is thriving and my personal life is looking up. I seem to be on a roll. First I complained about no new prospects at Babylon and viola, Wednesday night’s trick showed up. Then, shortly after bemoaning the fact that I no longer have any fuckable neighbors, pretty boy from the plane appeared. I think he is looking at purchasing Marc’s old place. Is there a magic genie somewhere that I am not aware of? I’d really like to know because I’d hate to squander that third wish. 

 

I might be speaking too soon, however. The golden child may be more trouble than he is worth. I ran into him entering the building as I was arriving home from work last night. Saying I was surprised to see him working the front door lock when I got there would be an understatement. I think I recovered well though as soon as I recalled where I had seen his face before. Then, for some reason, he got snippy with me immediately. 

 

My first impression of his personality is that he is high maintenance, incredibly presumptuous and very impressed with himself. He found it necessary, within the first two minutes of our conversation, to interrogate me about my exit from the plane, reprimand me for not giving him my card and inform me that he is all grown up. He’s a whopping twenty-nine years old and a Carnegie Mellon Professor of Economics on top of it. A numbers nerd.

 

Could this be the guy Michael and Ben wanted to introduce me to? Doubtful. Ben’s never been one to run with the Econ circle. Not ethereal enough for him. Besides, if this man was going to be their dinner guest, Michael would not have been able to contain himself. He knows my type. We have described our ideal men to each other during countless drunken conversations over the past twenty-five years. He is well aware of the fact that this boy fits my description perfectly. Well, if I could just shut him up, that is. Hey, maybe I just realized my third wish. 

 

When he’s not talking, he’s a wet dream waiting to happen. Closer scrutiny confirmed my initial assessment of his physical attributes. The mouth and ass are amazing. I think he got a bit flustered though when I offered to take him to my place and fuck him. I know he wanted to, but apparently we have to play some junior high games first. No fucking on the first date. Instead, before he would get off the elevator he had to tease me with a kiss. It was a good kiss; a great kiss; leading me to believe this is not over. 

 

He may not be long term fuck buddy material but I can guarantee the Welcome Wagon will be making at least one stop. That ass is going to be pointed north and that mouth is going to be begging, ‘Please fuck me, Brian,’ before anything is over.  



	8. Chapter 8

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**3 August 2012** **, Friday** **10:00 p.m.**  
  
Just a quick progress report.   
  
I called Robert first thing this morning and asked him to ship all the boxes that go straight to my office at Carnegie-Mellon as soon as possible. It’s everything I’ll need for my research and my classes. The boxes are all in one corner of my bedroom, clearly labeled (I hope). Rob called me back around 4:00 p.m. and said UPS picked everything up before 2:00 and that it would be delivered on Tuesday. I hope so because this is a good time to work on my book, plus I need to do prep for the classes I’m teaching. I’m in pretty good shape for Principles of Micro Economics and Intermediate Micro, but I have a lot of work to do on Global Economic Issues. That will be a learning experience for me, as well. I’ve already started working on my syllabus, but of course, everything I’ve done so far is in those boxes in my ex-bedroom.  
  
Well, time for Babylon. I’m dressed to kill…or at least seduce…in jeans that fit perfectly and a light blue, sleeveless T-shirt with a navy diagonal. I think I look hot. I’m betting my prey will agree.   
  
**4 August 2012** **, Saturday** **2:30 p.m.**  
  
Where do I start? It’s a long story, but fortunately I don’t have anything else I have to do today. I’m going to take my time with this, do it justice, and try to sort out what _I_ think.  
  
As soon as I got to Babylon, I remembered why I dislike the club scene. First of all, the music is way too loud. If you want to talk, you have to scream but, then again, not many of the guys are there to converse. Secondly, it’s a meat market, and I hate being part of that. I don’t want to be just another dick to some stranger. Last night was different, of course – I was after one specific guy.   
  
The first thing I did was look around and see if I could spot my target, then – when I couldn’t – I found the bar. I wormed my way through the crowd and saw Ben and Michael talking to (yelling at) a tall guy, but not MY tall guy. I joined them and Ben introduced their companion as Emmett Honeycutt. He’s a good-looking guy, but very out there. Michael and Emmett went off to dance, and Ben asked me if I wanted to dance too.   
  
I said, “Sure.”   
  
Ben’s got rhythm, which is not always true of academics. We got hot and sweaty, then went back to the bar for a beer. While we leaned on the bar and cooled down, Ben watched Michael dancing with a little smile on his face. Cute, especially considering that they’ve been together since forever.  
  
Emmett and Michael joined us shortly after that. Michael ordered a beer and Emmett had a Crazy Lady. (Personally, I don’t drink anything that’s blue-green, but tastes differ.) I yelled at Michael, “Where’s your friend, Brian Kinney?”  
  
“I don’t see him. Maybe he’s not here yet.”  
  
“Okay. Want to dance?”  
  
Michael looked up at Ben – Professor Bruckner is a big dude, big in every dimension – and Ben waved us off, so we started moving to some thumpa-thumpa I didn’t recognize. The dance floor was crowded, pushing us together. Didn’t seem to bother Michael – he was grinning at me as our bodies touched randomly. Then suddenly, a tall, slim, sexy body came between us, cutting me off. Michael leaned around him and yelled, “Brian Kinney.” I was pretty sure Brian had recognized me, but I couldn’t be certain since he had his back to me.   
  
I yelled, “See you later,” to Michael and made my way to Ben at the bar. As I turned back toward the dance floor, Brian grasped Michael’s head and forcefully kissed him - could have even had some tongue action going on – I was too far away to be sure. I looked at Ben who yelled, “Best friends for 25 years.”  
  
I yelled back, “A little territorial?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
Brian’s territorial; I’m competitive. Seeing that just made me more determined than ever to shift the man’s focus to me.   
  
Another hour or so went by…I danced, I had another beer, I even turned down a couple of invitations to get my dick sucked before I noticed Brian Kinney leaning on the railing of the catwalk, looking like the master of all he surveyed. I waved goodbye to my current partner…or at least the guy I identified as my current partner (the dance floor really was crowded)…and went up to join him. “Nice place,” I yelled.  
  
“Glad you approve.”  
  
I turned so that my back was to the catwalk, and I was looking at that beautiful face. I ran my hand up his chest to his neck, cupped my hand around the back of his head, and pulled his mouth down to mine. This time I was less subtle. I took charge, invading his mouth, exploring and probing.   
  
At first there was no response, and I began to worry. Then Brian moved, one hand holding my head in place, the other gripping my ass while he pushed his knee between my legs. I broke the kiss and gasped as I rode his thigh, my dick thickening with every movement of our bodies. I shifted mine so that his hardening cock was caught between us, and I ground against it.  
  
When I started working on the top snap on his jeans, he broke the embrace, grabbed my wrist, and started walking toward the stairs. I knew where he was headed. I leaned up, put my lips close to his ear, and said, “I don’t do backrooms.”   
  
He slowed and gave me a sardonic look, one eyebrow raised. “Ri-ight. So you were attacking me…why?”  
  
I said. “Come back to my hotel room with me and after we fuck, you can explain your arrogant attitude…unless you’re afraid to be alone with me,” I added under my breath. I emphasized my argument by sliding my hand down the front of his half-opened jeans. No underwear. Good. Pay dirt.  
  
He narrowed his eyes at me. “Afraid? I think I can handle anything you have to offer.”  
  
Apparently Brian’s hearing hasn’t been affected by extended exposure to club music. “I wouldn’t be too sure,” I said, and I gave him the cheekiest grin I could muster.  
  
He looked at me steadily for a moment, than started down the steps, still holding on to my wrist. He has big hands, long fingers, a firm grip…not that I was fighting him. He headed for the door, and I didn’t make any effort to control my smile. He caught it and said, “We’re going to my place.”   
  
Okay. Even better. I wanted to see it, anyway.  
  
After a short ride we were back at the building that I planned to call home. The elevator was ready and waiting for a quick trip to the top floor. Once there Brian slid his heavy, battered door open, and it was amazing! He has the whole floor, double my space. His furnishings are contemporary, minimalist, and expensive. There is no clutter. I said, “I like it,” and turned to shove the door shut.  
  
He said, “Well, thank goodness. I’d hate to have to move.” One eyebrow arched, and he continued, “Now show me something I couldn’t have gotten in the backroom.”  
  
I walked up, unsnapped his jeans, and pushed them down. I weighed his balls in my palm and ran my thumb up his slightly thickened shaft. “I like it,” I repeated.   
  
Brian leaned back against the counter, as I dropped to my knees and buried my nose in his pubes. I took a deep breath – my God, he smelled good. I had to taste him. I ran my tongue slowly along his shaft, taking my time, feeling it thicken as I licked, feeling my cock follow suit. I closed my lips around the cap and probed his slit with my tongue, then flicked my tongue back and forth across the tip. His back arched, pushing his penis into my mouth, and I let it happen. I moaned and unsnapped my own jeans, running my fingers lightly down my boner.   
  
I sucked deeply and then slowly dragged my lips back up his length to lick and suck the tip again. Then I sat back, smiled up at him, and started pulling his boots off.   
  
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” His face was flushed and his eyes at half mast.  
  
“Taking this bad boy,” I ran my fingers over his cock, “to bed.” I pushed and pulled his jeans off. Brian grabbed my hair, pulled me to my feet, and started kissing me. I swayed into him and ran my hands up under his shirt, then pulled away to haul it over his head. I toed my shoes off as he got rid of my shirt, then I shucked my jeans (no underwear, of course). As soon as we were both buck naked, Brian grabbed my wrist and I followed him across the room and up the three steps to his bed. He stepped up on to it, still holding my wrist, and gave me a tug, but I just stood and gazed. My God, I don’t know how old he is, but he is fine-looking. You can see that gravity has done some damage to his waistline, but he is slender and sleek, all smooth skin over hard muscle.   
  
I stepped up on the bed. Brian tipped my head up and assaulted my mouth, ramming his tongue deep into it again and again. My knees got weak, and I whimpered. I slumped against him, feeling his penis hard against my belly, then followed him down until we were on our knees. We ground our cocks together once, twice, three times, and then he pushed me face down onto the bed. As he licked down my back, I thought dizzily of my plan to fuck him. Before I could do more than think, before I could formulate any sort of a response, his tongue was up my ass. I stopped thinking at all. The rational Justin Taylor fled and left only his senses behind to cope with Brian Kinney. He narrowed the universe down to my body and his, and what I felt and what I wanted and what I needed. By the time he replaced his tongue with two fingers, my plan to fuck him was…not forgotten, not destroyed…obliterated. As he pulled his fingers out, my ass just followed them, until I found myself on my elbows and knees, begging, “Fuck me. Now. Now. God. Please.”   
  
He did. He paused to put on a condom and to lube, but it wasn’t long enough for me to regain any control. In what felt like seconds, I felt him pushing past my sphincter, and I whined, deep in my throat. Then he was in, and we were finding our rhythm. Twice Brian brought me almost to completion, and twice he backed off. I heard myself begging, “Brian, please. Now, please. Oh, God.” Brian laughed softly and ran his hand down my belly, over my flank, around my thigh, and down to my knees. He touched me everywhere, in fact, except where I wanted it, needed it, demanded it…everywhere except where I longed for pressure and was forbidden to touch. Finally, the third time, I felt his hand touch my cock, and I tried to rut against it, moaning, “Brian, harder. For the love of God, harder. I can’t take it…please. Now. NOW.” He smoothed my pre-come over my shaft, increased the pressure, and I came in a series of self-destroying ejaculations.   
  
I collapsed onto the bed, and Brian followed me, his body braced on his out-stretched arms, shuddering and shaking with his own orgasm. He withdrew, disposed of the condom, and flopped down on his back. I turned to my side, my back barely touching his arm, and started slipping into sleep.  
  
He nudged me with his elbow. “That’s it. Get your clothes on and get going.”  
  
I said, “Sorry. Not happening.”  
  
“I mean it. Leave.”  
  
I twisted my neck and looked at him. I smiled, said, “No,” and pulled a pillow under my head. The last thing I heard as I fell asleep was his exasperated sigh.  
  


Looking back on last night, I think I should have listened to Brian.


	9. Chapter 9

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**4 August 2012** **, Saturday** **8:15 p.m.**  
  
I had to take a break from writing about my encounter with Brian Kinney. I got anxious. I am never anxious. Okay, I am _rarely_ anxious. Anyway, I’ve had some dinner and I’m ready to go on with my story.  
  
As I said, after Brian and I fucked, I fell asleep in his bed. I guess I slept for a couple of hours. I came awake gradually to a hand stroking me softly, repetitively, starting at my shoulder, gliding over my rib cage, up over my hip bone, around my ass cheek to my crack, then back to my shoulder. It felt comforting, soothing, warm. I hummed encouragingly and snuggled down into the sheets a little.   
  
Brian murmured, “You like that?”  
  
“Umm,” I nodded.   
  
His hand moved along its path again, slowing a little, and I felt myself starting to drift back to sleep.  
  
“Don’t fall asleep on me, “ he said, still in the same soft, barely audible voice.   
  
“Mm-hmm.” I slitted one eye. It was still dark.   
  
This time the hand stopped on my shoulder and pushed lightly. I rolled onto my back and squinted up at Brian. He lay on his side, his head propped up on one hand. He smiled, bent his head, and kissed me gently, running his tongue along the inside of, first, my upper lip, then the lower, circumnavigating my mouth. I hummed again. He nipped at my lip, then sucked and licked my ear and the sensitive spot right below it. I shuddered, and he laughed quietly, his breath cooling the moisture on my skin.  
  
“You need to finish what you started earlier,” he said.  
  
It was my turn to smooth my hand down his body to his semi-erect penis. I struggled to a sitting position so that I could put my hand on Brian’s shoulder to urge him down. He relaxed into the pillows. “Get me off,” he said.  
  
I ran my fingers lightly up and down his cock and felt it jerk in response. I slid down next to Brian’s long body and let my tongue follow the path my fingers had taken, adding his taste and scent to the feel of smooth skin over his rapidly hardening shaft. God, I _wanted_. I wanted with an entirely unexpected intensity. I wanted to take him whole into my mouth, I wanted to hear him moan as I sucked him, I wanted to feel and taste his orgasm. My whole body clenched as I thought about it…then I did it. I opened my mouth, curled my lips over my teeth, and took as much of his cock as I could into my mouth. I pressed my tongue to the underside of his shaft and ran it up to the cap. Brian growled deep in his throat, and I got harder.   
  
I sucked, hard. Brian responded by grabbing my hair, holding my head steady, and pushing into my mouth, his body tensing and arching to give me better access to his cock. I moaned in reaction and took more of him. He ruffled my hair, apparently approving. I hummed a reply and set up a rhythm, sucking strongly until Brian went rigid and came in my mouth with another deep growl. I swallowed and licked, then twisted around to plunge my tongue deep into his mouth so that he tasted himself.  
  
Brian’s hand snaked its way between my body and the bed, seeking and finding my cock. I rolled onto my back. Brian followed me, rolling up on his side and propping up his head on his arm again. He moistened my shaft with my pre-come and wrapped that large, capable hand around it. I gasped and shuddered. Brian’s mouth covered mine, and his tongue pushed deep inside. His tongue and hand moved in unison, slowly at first, then faster and more insistently. I came with a yelp that surprised me and made Brian laugh. I felt absurdly pleased that I had amused him, however inadvertently.   
  
Brian handed me a bunch of tissues and rolled over. I listened to his breathing deepen and slow. I was more wakeful. Why, I wondered, had I let Brian control everything? He fucked me. He told me to suck him off…and I did. Why? Why was I just now, sated and limp, thinking that I should have told him to roll over so that _I_ could fuck _him_? Finally, why had Brian’s laughter seemed like a victory for me? This is it, I thought. I’m not rolling over…literally rolling over…for Brian Kinney again. And I fell asleep.  
  
Light was streaming in through the loft’s high windows when I woke up, and the bed was empty. I moved my hand across the sheets, and they were still warm from Brian’s body. He must have just gotten up. I listened, and the toilet flushed. My body immediately signaled that I needed to take care of the same business…my bladder is very suggestible that way…and I rolled out of bed.   
  
I met Brian at the bathroom door, both of us stark naked, me with a stiffie. Brian looked me up and down and raised an eyebrow. I said, “May I use the bathroom, please?”  
  
Brian nodded. “I’m making coffee. Want some?”  
  
I nodded. “Sure.” I was very aware of feeling grubby despite my half-hearted attempt at cleaning up after he’d jerked me off. “Do you mind if I use your shower first?”  
  
It was his turn to say, “Sure.” As soon as I got the water right…how come a millimeter adjustment to the knob can turn the water from arctic to parboil?...I stood under the spray and let it wash over me. I opened my eyes to look for the soap, and the door of the stall opened, letting in a blast of chilly air and Brian Kinney.   
  
I turned, feeling unusually small next to him – I am 5’ 6”, which is _not_ small – and smiled up at him. A small smile turned up the corners of those sensual lips, and little wrinkles fanned out from the corners of his eyes. He really is one of the most beautiful men I have ever seen and also one of the most charismatic. He makes me want to please him. I want him to like me. That’s scary.  
  
I swayed toward him involuntarily – my body reacts to Brian in ways my brain deplores – and he took my chin in his hand and stared into my eyes. His smile faded, and his expression grew serious. Then he bent his head and kissed me. This time I took the initiative and thrust my tongue into his mouth, exploring. His hands slid down my back, to my ass, and pulled me against him. Fuck. He was hard, and so was I.   
  
I rutted against his thigh and felt his laugh. “Didn’t get enough last night? Feels to me like you need some more, now. Right now.”  
  
I caught my breath.  
  
“We aim to please, at chez Kinney,” he said and turned me to face the wall. He ran one hand down my back again while the other one grasped my cock, and I gasped again. “It’s good any time,” he said softly, “but morning fucks are the best.”  
  
He must have felt my penis harden in response, because he slid first one, then two fingers into me. I pushed back, my hands flat on the shower wall, and whined. He stepped back for a moment and I heard the sound of a condom being opened. (The man keeps condoms in his shower!) Then his dick was up my ass, pushing in with only water to lubricate his entrance, and his hand was on my dick, and I was bracing myself against the glass, trying to keep from being pounded into the next room. I pushed back, rotating my hips, riding his cock, and I was rewarded by his gasp. He rammed into me again and again, I pushed back repeatedly, he pumped my dick, and we both came hard. My legs were shaking; I had to lock my knees to keep from slipping to the floor.   
  
Now I was frightened. I had to get out of there. I grabbed the sponge, washed all the essential places, shampooed my hair, and bolted out of the shower. As I threw on my clothes, Brian ambled out of the bathroom, still naked, still dripping, toweling his hair dry. “Do you want your coffee now?”   
  
“No,” I said. “Thanks very much,” and I practically ran for the door. I had my cell phone out, calling for a cab, as soon as I hit the landing. I couldn’t get back to the Ramada Inn fast enough. 

  
No one…no one!…has ever affected me the way Brian Kinney does. I fell asleep resolving to take charge, and yet…maybe ten minutes after I opened my eyes…he had his dick up my ass and I was loving it. The man is dangerous.

 


	10. Chapter 10

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**8/4/12** **;** **9:45 PM**   

I wouldn't be surprised if I find a glass slipper around here somewhere, considering the way Cinderella dashed out this morning.  And, like Prince Charming, I realize I still haven't found out his name.  

I do think I am getting a taste of what straight guys must have to deal with, though.  Airplane boy is a fucking princess.  But at least he put out on the second date. 

It all started last night when I hit Babylon looking for Mikey.  He told me he and Ben would grace it with their presence, but I had my doubts.  So I was pleasantly surprised when I spotted him already on the dance floor when I arrived.  I was doubly surprised when I saw who he was dancing with.  That blond beauty seems to be everywhere lately.  But at the moment, I was there to see my best friend, so I walked up and positioned myself between the two of them.   

"You came," I said to Mikey as he put his arms on my shoulders and ducked to the side to announce my arrival.  Blondie didn’t stick around, choosing instead to go and stand by the professor.  

Now, I'm assuming he WAS their dinner guest, but I didn't want to appear overly curious. Michael looked back at me and said, "Of course I did, and I told you I would, didn't I?"

He's like a fucking puppy.  I shook my head and smiled as I grabbed him and brought my lips to his for a kiss.  Okay, I admit, I played it up a bit for the sake of Ben and his guest but, honestly, I love Michael and I prefer to show him rather than say it.  In addition, this is my turf. 

Mikey and I danced for a while and then he said he'd better get back to Ben.   "What?”  I asked, “Surely after all these years he's not afraid I'm going to steal you away, is he?" 

Michael smirked, "Come join us," he said, "I want you to meet the guy I was dancing with."

  
"Already have," I told him, "plus I have some paperwork to take care of in the office.  I'll catch you later."    
  
One more kiss and we parted, he to his hubby and me to my office.  I still had every intention of getting into the boy's pants, but I wasn't going to do it in front of Mikey and Ben, giving them the impression they played matchmaker.  Besides, I thoroughly enjoyed the floorshow he gave me on my office monitor, dancing suggestively with a number of hopefuls.  I was well positioned to pounce if anyone thought they would be taking him for a backroom stroll.   

After about an hour I closed up shop and positioned myself on the catwalk.  Just as I had suspected, he was watching for me.  I wasn't standing there for two minutes before he was bounding up the stairs.  Sidling up next to me he exclaimed, "Nice place." 

I can just picture Mikey gushing when he explained to this guy who the owner was.   "Glad you approve," I responded.    

That was the extent of our conversation before he started in with his kissing game again.  This time he got a little more daring: humping my leg and undoing the top button of my jeans.  

 

That was it; I’d had enough of his attempt at foreplay.  Grabbing his wrist, I started leading him to the stairs.  Guess what?  HE doesn’t do backrooms.  I wasn’t surprised.  Princesses seldom do. 

 

His exact words were, “I don’t do backrooms.  Come back to my hotel room and after we fuck, you can explain your arrogant attitude…unless you’re afraid to be alone with me.” 

What the fuck?  Was that really called for?  Once again, did I initiate any of this?   

Let’s break this down.  “I don’t do backrooms.”  Then why the fuck was he undoing my pants?  Did he want me to bend him over the railing and do him up there?

“Come back to my hotel room.”  Now why would that be necessary when in addition to my club with its own private room, I also have an elegantly appointed loft just minutes away? 

“and after we fuck, you can explain your arrogant attitude.”  All right, I’ll give him the ‘after we fuck’ part but ‘arrogant attitude?’  Excuse me?  Where does he get off accusing ME of having an arrogant attitude?  I was simply doing MY job, going about MY business trip, coming home to MY house, and enjoying MY club.  Seems to me he’s the one with the attitude issues.

And then there is the kicker.  “unless you’re afraid to be alone with me.”  Right, because he’s so terrifying.  The only thing I was afraid of was that I might find a twat in those perfectly fitting jeans of his.  And if that ass hadn’t looked so utterly magnificent in those jeans, I would have left him standing right there.  Alone.  However, my dick was being drawn to him like a kid in quicksand, and I couldn’t wait to sink.   

I had him in my car and at the loft in no time flat.  Of course he felt it necessary to let me know he approved of my home.  What a relief.  

Minutes later he was approving of my cock also.  I had finally found a way to get him to shut up but it didn’t last nearly long enough.   Shortly after beginning what was proving to be an exemplary kitchen blowjob, he stopped and decided he wanted to move to the bedroom.  This resulted in us getting naked, so I really couldn’t complain.

The ass that looked so good in clothes is jaw-droppingly beautiful out of them.  Seconds later it was just where I wanted it.  In…my…face.  And then, just as I had predicted, I heard the magic words.  “Fuck me.  Now. Now.  God.  Please.”  Bingo.   

Of course I complied, and I must say I have no complaints in regard to his sexual prowess.  He felt good, and I’m not just referring to the feel of his tight ass surrounding my cock.  His skin…delicate and silky…drew me to him as if magnetized.  His taste is indescribable but delicious.  I’m afraid it is like a drug that addicted me instantly and left me wanting more as soon as I withdrew my tongue. 

I had him from behind and due to my previous training (thank you, Seth), I felt my body climaxing twice before I actually brought us both to completion.  

He was a mess, a quivering, hot, explosive mess that I know I want more of.  That scares me.  If this toy came with a mute button, I could die a happy man. But that was too much to wish for.  

Seconds after some of the best sex I can remember was over, he curled up to sleep.  Did I say he was presumptuous?  I prefer to sleep in my own bed, alone.  Tricks are supposed to get dressed and leave once the deed is done.  

I told him to go and he simply refused.  Let’s add stubborn to that list of fine personality traits, shall we?  

I must admit I was dumbfounded. So I let him sleep…for a couple hours, that is.  If he insisted on staying for the night, I fully intended to collect the rent.  When I woke with a hard-on, I was damned if I was going to let this child slumber through it.  That skin was calling me again.  

I began to caress him; softly at first and then harder as he began to stir.  Now it was my turn to make demands.  “You need to finish what you started earlier,” I told him, “Get me off.”  

I wanted a repeat performance of the delight he had served up in the kitchen, and this time he was going to complete the job.  Fucking his mouth was equal in pleasure to fucking his ass.  I have no idea how one body got blessed with two such incredible orifices, but I certainly was thankful they were both in my bed at the moment.   

I slept peacefully after that until the morning sunlight filled my room.  I woke with the realization that there was someone sharing my bed, but it took me a few seconds to realize who it was and recreate the previous night’s events in my head.  When I did, I got up with a smile on my face and went in to use the bathroom.   

He quickly joined me, relieved himself and asked to use the shower.   Fine by me, I thought.  Water fucks are always nice. 

I left him playing with the faucet while I started coffee.  He startled a bit when I entered the shower but then quickly folded into me.  He’s so easy.  

We kissed, and then I turned him to gain easy access.  I massaged his cock with my right hand and fingered his ass with my left.  So tight.  My dick hardened instantly at the thought of being inside him once more.  He whimpered when I removed my fingers and jutted his ass toward me, as if to follow them.  I quickly rolled a condom on and was back, pushing inside him.  

He braced himself and yelped as I entered and then pushed back again, rotating his hips and driving me crazy.  No time for patience or technique on this go round.  It was fast, hard and hot.   We came nearly simultaneously, and then the clock in his head must have struck twelve.  

He couldn’t get out of there fast enough.  His shower was over, and he was dressed before I had the soap rinsed out of my hair.  Refusing my offer of coffee, he was fumbling for his cell phone as he rushed to the door.  

I felt the word, “Wait!” forming in my mouth but I squelched it.  This is what I wanted wasn’t it?  A trick that comes in, fucks me, and then leaves quickly and quietly.  Maybe…maybe not.     

 


	11. Chapter 11

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**6 August 2012** **: Monday,** **2:30 p.m.**  
  
I had lunch with Ben and Michael today, at a diner where Michael’s mother used to work. The food isn’t anything to brag about – the usual diner fare – but the conversation was riveting.  
  
Michael got right to the point as soon as the waitress had taken our order. “I saw you leave with Brian on Friday night. How did that go?”  
  
Do I really want to discuss my sex life with two guys I’m meeting with for the third time? Well, yes, I do. Or at least I wouldn’t mind finding out more about Brian Kinney, and the general rule is, you have to give to get. 

 

“Okay, I guess.”

 

“How ‘okay’?”

 

“Well, the sex was good….”

 

“Then he threw you out?”

 

“No.”

 

“He didn’t throw you out?”

 

“He tried, but I fell asleep.”

 

“Wow. So what happened then?”

 

“He woke me up in the middle of the night, and I blew him.”

 

“And then you left.”

 

“I should have.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because in the morning he fucked me in the shower.”

 

“Jesus.” Michael had a look of awe on his face. “So what’s wrong with a morning fuck?”

 

“I don’t know. It’s just…just a lot.”

 

Michael nodded wisely. “You must have been sore.”

 

I was, but that wasn’t my problem. I didn’t mind Michael thinking it was, however. “You act surprised that I spent the night? Why?“

 

Michael and Ben exchanged a quick glance. “It’s not his usual style,” Ben said.

 

“Oh. So what’s that all about? I don’t understand.”

 

Ben answered again. “Brian’s relationship adverse,” he said. 

I looked a question.

Michael said, “Shitty home life.”

There was a pause while I ate some eggs and I thought about that. “He’s been in some relationships, hasn’t he? I mean, he must be in his mid-thirties….”   
  


Michael nodded. “First there was a kid named Eric Duplessis. Brian met him right here, sitting at the counter, took him home, fucked him, and the kid fell in love with him. Of course, Brian didn’t reciprocate, but he didn’t run him off either. He took him home a couple more times, and Eric thought they had a relationship. I tried to warn him…he was a sweet boy…but apparently…I got this part from Brian so I don’t have all the details…Eric walked in on a threesome in the loft and was crushed. We never saw him again. I don’t think he’s been back to Liberty Ave.”  
  
“I’m surprised you remembered his name,” Ben said. “It’s been years.”  
  
“I always thought Brian felt badly about how it ended. That impressed me.”  
  
Ben said, “You’re probably giving Brian too much credit.”  
  
Michael shrugged. “Probably. Cody Bell was a different story.”  
  
“We all remember Cody Bell.”  
  
Michael said, “Cody Bell was a crackpot. Came from a bible-thumping background and reacted by downright hating heteros. All heteros. Brian made the mistake of taking him home once…he had a hot little body and a face that never broke any mirrors…and he stalked Brian for weeks afterwards. It didn’t help that Brian gave in a couple of times…let Cody blow him in the alley, took him home a second time when it was snowing and there was no one else around he wanted to fuck…but…”  
  
“Using Cody as a convenience was a bad idea,” Ben said.   
  
“Yeah. A very bad idea. He’d stake out Brian’s loft, ambush him on the landing, be waiting at his car in the morning…. Not sure exactly what Brian did to him to lose him…Brian won’t talk about it. I asked once, and he said, ‘Just took some pointers from my dear old Dad,’ and I dropped that topic forever. I’m not opening that can of worms.”  
  
Ben said, “Brian’s father was abusive, an alcoholic…Brian’s carrying some scars.”

“More recently he had an affair with this guy who lived in his building,” Michael said. “We never really got to know Seth even though the relationship lasted the longest of any Brian’s had.”

Ben said, “And even that was only a couple of months. Plus they rarely went anywhere together. I saw them at Woody’s a few times…maybe three, four times?” 

“At most,” Michael said. “But the reason they broke up is pretty funny….”

I put an encouraging look on my face.

“Seth lost his job and had to move back in with his mother.”

  
I laughed and shook my head, but this conversation made me queasy about pursuing Brian. I’ll bottom, I’ll top – I’m versatile – but whatever happens in or out of bed, I’ve always been the leader, the one who decided what was going to happen and when. That was true with Robert, with Jerry in our Junior and Senior years at Dartmouth…even with Chris, back at St. James. Do I want to pursue a man whose charisma turns me into a nelly bottom and who probably…no, certainly…has intimacy issues? I don’t think so. Maybe I should end this before it begins.


	12. Chapter 12

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**8/6/12, 7:18 pm**

**  
**Hi, Brian, it's Michael.  
  
 **Yeah.  
**  
What are you doing?  
  
 **Waiting for my dinner to arrive.  
**  
Are you alone?  
  
 **Shouldn't I be?  
  
** Well, I just thought, after your weekend with Justin...  
  
 **Who?  
  
** Justin Taylor. The guy you took home from Babylon Friday night. Blond, gorgeous, hot ass. Does any of this sound familiar to you?  
 **  
I took him home and fucked him Friday night, Michael. We didn't make a weekend out of it.  
  
** I heard you fucked him, and fucked him, and fucked him.  
 **  
** _Jesus Christ, he is a girl. Had to run and gossip with his cronies as soon as he pulled his pants up._  
 **  
It was just another routine Friday night for me.** _I lied._ **Was there a point to this call?  
  
** Just wanted to see what you thought. That's the guy who works with Ben that we wanted you to meet.  
 **  
Mmmm. Well, I met him.  
  
** And?  
 **  
And...nothing. He was a good fuck, Michael, that's it. Seems pretty high maintenance though. I'm not marrying him so don't start looking for your bridesmaid dress.  
  
** Oh, don't be so flippant, Brian. You're not getting any younger, and this guy’s a great catch.  
  
 **Listen, I'm not looking for a great catch, and even if I were, I sure as hell don't need you to find me one. Not getting any younger? My, that's deep.  
  
** Fuck you, you know what I mean. I just want you to be happy, Brian.  
 **  
I am happy, Michael. Thanks, but unless you have something more pertinent to discuss, I just buzzed my dinner up. If I'm lucky, Jake will be delivering it and he’ll be my appetizer.  
  
** Fine...see you at the diner tomorrow morning?  
 **  
It's a date. Later.  
**  
 _So that's his name. Miss Justin Taylor. Thanks, Michael, I thought I was going to have to call and ask, but I should have known better. You always come through for me._ ****

 


	13. Chapter 13

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**7 August 2012** **: Tuesday,** **11:00 p.m.**

 

Good day, despite the heat. UPS delivered my boxes to my office around 10:00 a.m. this morning, and I spent most of the rest of the day unpacking. As far as I can tell, nothing is missing.

 

 

I called the bank, and my mortgage has been approved but we can’t settle until the title company gets back to them. I talked to the lending officer, and he agreed to rattle their chain and see if he could speed up the process.

 

 

I called Robert this evening, and we discussed what I’m leaving for him and what I want moved here. Everything in my bedroom gets moved. I told him that if he wanted to keep the couch and the end tables, I’d take the dining room table and chairs. He was happy to agree to that, of course, since he can get by without dining room furniture, but no couch…that would be a problem. It’s his T.V., so he’s pretty much set for now.

 

 

I’m going shopping tomorrow. 

 

 

**9 August 2012** **: Thursday,** **10:30 p.m.**

 

 

The bank called me this morning and said I can close on my place tomorrow if I want to. I do, I very much do. The title company can’t settle until late in the afternoon – 4:30 p.m. – but my schedule isn’t so full that I can’t work them in. Am I excited? YES.

 

 

I went shopping yesterday and bought a Hoku sofa and chair in black leather that I found at ModaBode. The sofa is a floor model, so it will be delivered on Saturday – they brag about their White Glove delivery – but the chair will take about a week. I don’t care. This means I can get the fuck out of the Ramada Inn and spend this weekend in my own place. 

 

 

I also found a glass coffee table, not too expensive, that will look like it matches the dining room table that Rob says will be rolling east tomorrow. I talked to both Rob and the movers, and Mambo Movers says they’ll pack my stuff tomorrow for delivery next Tuesday. (I don’t have enough stuff for a full truck, so that’s slowing down progress.) Rob may miss me…he says he does, anyway…but I know he’ll be glad to have my room. He’s already terminated the lease on his workroom. As long as the condo association doesn’t notice the coming and goings of his drag-queen clientele, Rob can make them their fabulous gowns and lingerie in my ex-bedroom.

 

 

Still on my To Do list: buy a TV.

 

 

**10 August 2012** **: Friday,** **11:30 p.m.**

 

 

I am now the proud owner of a loft at 6th and Tremont, not to mention an impressively large mortgage, despite my $105,000 down payment. As soon as we were finished settling, Mom – she was present in her capacities of mother _and_ agent – drove us straight to the loft, to gloat. Also to picnic: the Complete Realtor had a bottle of champagne, two glasses, and a picnic hamper in her car. 

 

 

We got out of the car almost simultaneously with my new neighbor, Mr. Tall, Slim, and Sexy. My mother saw him and said, “Hi, Brian.”

 

 

_‘Hi, Brian?’_ My mother _knows_ Brian Kinney? What the fuck? 

 

 

Apparently she does, because Brian said, “Hi, Jennifer. How’s it going, Justin?”

 

 

My mother narrowed her eyes at me and said, “You’ve met Brian?”

 

 

So now my mother probably thinks Brian and I have fucked. Which we have, but I’d just as soon my mother didn’t think I’m a slut.

 

 

“Brian was on the same flight when I came in from Chicago,” I said.

 

 

Brian smiled a smile I can only describe as evil and said…to my _mother_!…”And then Justin tracked me down at Babylon last Friday.” 

 

 

Which is exactly what I did, but at the time I didn’t think I’d be discussing this facet of my social life with my mother. And by the look on her face, my mother now _knows_ Brian and I fucked. 

 

 

My mother’s mouth was already starting to move when I said, in as close an approximation of a newscaster’s voice as I could achieve, “And how do you two know each other?”

 

 

“Your mother found me offices for Kinnetik….”

 

 

“His advertising agency,” my mother explained.

 

 

“In a vacant bath house.”

 

 

“How…how….” I fumbled for an adjective that would simultaneously snub Brian and compliment Mom.

 

 

“Appropriate?” Brian quirked an eyebrow at me.

 

 

“Creative,” I said. The adjective I wanted does not exist.

 

 

“I’ve been doing a lot of business with the gay and lesbian community since I joined PFLAG, after you came out,” my mother explained.

 

 

Oh. Obviously, Mom and I have not been communicating enough.

 

 

She turned to Brian. “Justin and I are christening his new home with champagne and a floor picnic. Would you like to join us?”

 

 

I know I looked appalled. My mother was inviting the man I’d tricked for to my apartment for a floor picnic. I’m certain that even the most up-to-date etiquette books don’t cover that situation.

 

 

“I can’t stay long…I brought some work home,” he held up his briefcase, “but I could join you for a glass of champagne.” He gave me another brief, but evil, smile. 

 

 

Brian and my mother made polite conversation on the way up in the elevator while I worried about all the potential conversational booby-traps Brian could set for me. If it were anybody else, I’d think that my mother’s presence would inhibit him, but he’d already proven otherwise. 

 

 

Once inside my loft, I trailed after Brian and my mother while Mom showed him around. When she’d shown him the little there was to see, she selected a piece of floor in front of the windows and started spreading out a tablecloth. Then she pulled a corkscrew out of her picnic hamper and handed it and the champagne bottle to Brian to open. “Damn,” she said, “I only have two glasses. Justin, you and I….”

 

 

Brian interrupted, “No, no, that’s not necessary. Justin and I can share a glass. You don’t mind sharing a germ, do you, Justin?”

 

 

Jesus, the man has no shame. 

 

 

My mother looked first at Brian, then at me. “Tsk, tsk, Brian,” she said, “you’re making him blush,” and she smiled. 

 

 

I’m 29. I never blush. O.K., I _rarely_ blush. I decided to ignore them both. “Shall we sit down?” I asked the room at large.

 

 

Once we were all seated on Mom’s checked tablecloth, she opened up the hamper and pulled out crudités, salsa, ranch dip, silver-dollar-sized rolls with various fillings, fruit salad, and lace cookies, all in quantities sufficient for six people. She handed around plates and silverware, then raised her glass in a toast. “To your new home, Justin.”

 

 

She and Brian touched glasses, and he said, “Here’s to everything new…new home, new job, new….” He let his voice trail off, drank about half the glass, and handed me the rest. I said, “Thank you,” with all the dignity I could muster and finished it off.

 

 

My mother immediately picked up the conversational ball and asked Brian how everything was going at Kinnetik, then inquired after several people I have never met or…as in Emmett Honeycutt’s case…have met only briefly. Brian’s answers were polite but to the point, and Mom…always sensitive to social signals…began asking me for details on how my job was going and what plans I had for the loft. Brian contributed a remark now and then, but Mom and I carried the conversation while he tucked into the food. 

 

 

By the time we had eaten and finished off the champagne, it was getting dark. (I have to get the electricity turned on tomorrow.) We all stood up. Brian helped my mother to her feet, and Mom finished what she was saying. “This is such a good location for you, Justin: so convenient to Carnegie-Mellon, to Liberty Ave, everything.” She bent over to pick up the tablecloth.

 

 

Brian leaned toward me and said, using that same soft, barely audible voice I remembered from the middle of the night, “So convenient for any number of things. Things we won’t discuss with your mother present.”

 

 

“Things that are never going to happen,” I hissed back.

 

 

“What did you say, Justin?” my mother asked.

 

 

“Nothing,” I ground out. “Never mind.”

 

 

“I think Justin may have had too much champagne, Jennifer. He was just being a little silly.”

 

 

Mom looked back and forth between us, clearly intrigued. 

 

 

I forced a smile and said, “That was a lovely picnic, Mom.”

 

 

She said, “I’m glad you could join us, Brian.”

 

 

I said, “Yeah,” in the most discouraging tone I could muster, without being downright rude. 

 

 

“Anytime,” Brian said and continued in a lower voice, “anywhere.” 

 

 

I glared at him. Why did I feel like I’d just bottomed for him again? Because he’d fucked me over, that’s why.

 

 

After that exchange, Brian went upstairs, Mom dropped me off at the hotel, and I started getting ready to vacate the Ramada.


	14. Chapter 14

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**8/11/12** **,** **10:38 AM**

 

FUCK! If I could make one structural change to this building, it would be to relocate that goddamn elevator to the far outside corner. Someone, and I have a very good idea of who it is, has been up and down in that fucking thing at least twenty times already this morning.

 

 

Justin is now officially a resident of 6th and Tremont. I know this because I was invited to celebrate his purchase of apartment 3B yesterday afternoon by his mother. They were getting out of her car when I drove up to the building. In the time it took me to park, turn off the ignition and unbuckle, I had put two and two together. Justin Taylor must be the gay son Jennifer Taylor told me about. The same Jennifer Taylor who just happens to be my realtor. Small world. Although he has a multitude of personality flaws and issues, it’s good to know he was raised well.

 

 

Jennifer is one classy lady. The kind of woman I picture Lindsay growing into. She is someone who was handed a lot in life on a silver platter. But she is also someone who picked the platter up and arranged things her own way when it came crashing to the ground. I respect that.

 

 

I recall a conversation she and I had while in negotiations for the building that now houses Kinnetik. She told me she had a gay son and when he came out, her ex-husband just wouldn’t accept it or him. It was the beginning of the end of an unhealthy marriage that, according to her, was the best thing that could have happened. Nonetheless, I’ll bet there was a lot of self-induced guilt heaped on that gay son over it.

 

 

Jennifer greeted me as soon as I got out of my car. Justin just stood next to her looking shocked. She asked if I’d like to help christen his new place with an impromptu champagne brunch, as I watched shocked turn into horrified. Of course I accepted, partially to be polite, but mainly to watch him squirm. Mama is apparently one of the few people Justin didn’t include in his broadcast of our recent activities.

 

 

It was obvious he was uncomfortable having me there but I’m not sure why. Jennifer knows he’s gay and what that entails. I don’t think she has any delusions about him saving himself for marriage. Still, he took every opportunity he could to distance himself from me in front of her and, I must admit, I took every opportunity I could to close that gap.

 

 

I really can’t figure this kid out. For someone who seemed to materialize everywhere I went a week ago, he had become incredibly scarce since the morning I last had my dick in his ass. He certainly gave me every indication that he enjoyed himself at our little slumber party. But then there was that disappearing act, and yesterday, when I subtly suggested a repeat performance, he insisted it was never going to happen again. Is it possible that I have met someone who is actually more relationship phobic than I am?

 

 

If all he was interested in was the hunt and a one time fuck, that’s fine. But, I would hope that he’s mature enough to tell me. On the other hand, the junior high actions he has exhibited so far don’t give me much hope for that. I’ve never liked these kinds of games, so I guess it’s time for me to figure out a way to get to the bottom of this.

 

I think I need to find a straight girl (words that have never come to my mind before _)_ to explain his fucked up mental processes to me.


	15. Chapter 15

**10 August 2012** **: Friday,** **4:05 p.m.** This whole place smells of latex paint, but I’ve done the one thing I had to do to make this apartment mine: I painted the fireplace wall a clear, bright blue. Yesterday, when I was shopping, I found a bowl with the exact shade of blue I wanted. This morning the bowl and I went to Home Depot, got way too much paint and a ladder, and I spent until about 10 minutes ago painting. Thank heavens the wall only needed one coat! As it was, today was almost as much fun as a trip to the dentist and as necessary, for me, anyway. 

**12 August 2012** **: Sunday,** **11:00 a.m.**  
  
A good thing about having only one piece of furniture – a couch – is that I don’t have to spend much time cleaning. Yesterday was busy, however. I had to get to Pittsburgh Power & Water before 1:00 p.m. in order to get my utilities turned on. Then I stopped for a few housekeeping essentials: a pillow, a pillowcase, and a blanket to make me comfortable on the couch, and another stop for toilet paper, condoms, spray cleaner, and a fork, knife, and spoon to use with my take-out meals. (Actually, I found a handsome set of stainless flatware – as sleek as my neighbor upstairs – and bought service for eight plus four serving pieces. I really should practice S.O. S. [Stay Out of Stores].) And, yes, I bought an entertainment center that will be installed on Tuesday, hopefully not simultaneously with the delivery of my furniture.  
  
I ran this morning – gotta join a gym – showered, went out for breakfast and a Times-Reporter, and now I have the rest of the day free. I did bring home some reading to do over the weekend, but basically I can spend as much time as I want sketching.  
  
I have a great view from my window, but it doesn’t lend itself to sketching, and I’m not buying watercolors now, when my stuff is due to arrive in a couple of days. I should go out to Herron Hill Park where there are vistas and people and structures and….  
  
Fuck. Be honest with yourself, Justin. You know what you want to sketch and where you can find it. I want to sketch that face and see if I can convey how large hazel eyes and a strong, sensual mouth can transform an ordinary face into a compellingly beautiful one. I want to draw that body and see if I can show the potent sexuality that makes me want to be on my knees right now, unsnapping his 501s….  
  
Go to the park, Justin. NOW

 

  **8/12/12** **–** **Noon**

_Hello_  

Cynthia, it’s Brian. 

_What’s wrong?_  

Nothing, why? 

_It’s Sunday Brian.  I don’t work on Sunday._  

This isn’t a work call. 

_So, is this going to involve an attorney, a physician or a locksmith?_  

Cute, but not funny.   

_Just speaking from experience.  To what do I owe the honor?_  

I need advice. 

_Regarding?_  

A man. 

_Oh, god, I don’t believe I’m having this conversation.  In the fifteen years I’ve known you; you have never needed anyone’s help in that area._  

Well, in the fifteen years you’ve known me I’ve never fucked a man with the brain of a straight girl.   

_Let me guess.  You fucked him, dumped him, broke his heart and now you can’t get rid of him.  Am I on the right track?_  

Only the first part, then you derailed. 

_Brian, no!  You aren’t telling me he br…_  

(Laughs) No, not going to happen Cynthia…ever.  Yeah, I fucked him and it was…ah…good…real good…for both of us.  But now he’s avoiding me.  Why?   

_Hmm.  I guess it could be for any number of reasons.  As unimaginable as this is going to sound to you, maybe it wasn’t as great for him as you think._

Doubtful.  Give me some other reasons. 

_Well, maybe there’s somebody else…or, maybe he’s afraid of you._

_God alone knows what he may have heard._

_Go ask him._

I hate this shit. 

_Sometimes you have to do things you hate to get what you want Brian.  Ask him for a date. If he accepts, it will give you plenty of opportunity to find out.  And if he doesn’t, well, at least you’ll have closure._

I don’t do dates. 

_Up until now you didn’t do repeats either, remember?...Brian?_  

Yeah, I’m still here. 

_Is he worth it?_   

Thanks, Cynthia, see you tomorrow. 


	16. Chapter 16

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**12 August 2012** **: Sunday,** **10:30 p.m.**

I am so screwed. I’ve been hunted, chased down, caught, trussed up, and now I’m ready to be…. I’m not finishing that thought.

I did go to Herron Hill yesterday, spent most of the afternoon sketching – did quick sketches of a number of tots for their grateful parents – picked up dinner on the way home, then decided to go out for a couple of drinks after dinner. I remembered Ben and Michael recommending Woody’s, so I headed over. I took a seat at the bar where I could look over the crowd…you know, not actively cruising but not entirely adverse to an interesting offer, especially now that I have my own place.

I hadn’t finished my first beer when my upstairs neighbor walked in, alone. Shit. I should have figured out that if Ben and Michael frequented a bar, Brian was likely to go there too. I thought briefly of leaving, taking my business somewhere less dangerous, but Brian’s actions disarmed me. He saw me immediately, acknowledged me with a smile and the quirk of an eyebrow but made no effort to approach me. He went directly to the pool table and racked up the balls. Five minutes shooting solitary pool and he had himself a game.

I never liked pool anyway.

I got involved in a conversation with an older guy named Ted – nice guy, good conversation, great zingers – with hook-up potential. I was trying to decide whether or not to make a move when I felt a body shift onto the stool next to me. I didn’t turn, but Ted looked past me and said, “Hi, boss.”

Then I turned and looked right into Brian’s mischievous eyes. Fuck. Ted works for Brian Kinney. And not as a dancer at Babylon, I’ll bet.

Ted said, “Brian, this is….”

“Justin Taylor. We’ve….”

I waited for Brian to say, “Fucked.”

After a tiny pause, he said, “Met.” The “fucked” hung in the air, written in tiny white lights, flashing on and off.

Ted said, “It was great talking to you, Justin. See you around?” and he walked off towards the men’s room.

I looked at Brian coldly. “Ran _him_ off, huh?”

“You don’t know Ted. I did you a favor so don’t go all defensive on me, sonny boy,” Brian said.

Doncha hate it when you’re accused of doing something and the accusation is spot on?

He continued, “I have something to ask you.”

I looked back at him, trying to keep my face as blank as possible, trying to convey my extreme disinterest.

“I copped two tickets for the Rufus Wainwright concert Friday. Can you use one?”

Can I use one? _Yes!_ “How much?”

“On me. They were free.”

Fuck. This may not be a cash transaction, but I have the feeling I’ll be paying in some currency.

I’ve never had a poker face. Brian said, “I won’t ask you to put out before, during, or after the show.”

Damn, that “during” got me in the gut…or a bit lower. But the key word in that statement, from my perspective, was “ask.” Brian Kinney in the seat next to me, plus an hour or so of Rufus Wainwright, might significantly weaken my resistance to the Kinney charms. On the other hand, I’ve wanted to see Rufus live for a long, long time….

“Okay,” I said. “Where is the concert and what time?”

“At the Apollo, at eight. I’ll stop by around seven for you?”

“Is this a _date_?”

Brian looked horrified. “I don’t do dates.”

“Golly gee, Tyler McGee, sounds like a date to me.”

Brian smiled. “I’d never have taken you for a ‘Leigh and McGee’ fan. Too intellectual.”

I ignored his comment. “Why don’t you just drop the ticket off, and I’ll meet you there?”

“Afraid to be alone in the car with me?”

Well…yes…but I wasn’t admitting to anything. I narrowed my eyes at him.

He rolled his lips over his teeth. “How about if I promise to keep my hands off you in the car? I won’t put my hand on your thigh and run it up to your dick and cover your dick until it gets hard….”

Fuck. His words were having the usual effect on me…and he knew it. Brian was looking directly at my crotch. “That sort of thing is exactly why I don’t want you to give me a ride,” I blurted, and immediately regretted every word.

Brian threw up his hand, palm toward me, his eyes crinkling with laughter. “Don’t worry. I told you I don’t go on dates, ever – think of the Jag as public transportation. It’s just a convenient way for the two of us to get cross town.”

“Okay,” I said grudgingly, thinking, I am too damn easy. “Seven o’clock Friday. And no funny stuff.”

Brian said, “I told you I’ll keep my hands off you in the car.”

I said, “All right,” made my excuses, and went home. It was only just now, writing out our conversation, that I noted the limitations to his promise. Damn. 

 


	17. Chapter 17

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**14 August 2012** **; Tuesday,** **10:00 p.m.**  
  
I’m dead on my feet.  
  
The movers arrived almost two hours earlier than scheduled, at about noon. That was good.  
  
The installers from PP&M Sound & Light were still here, hanging my screen, setting up the peripherals – they’re going to be out in plain sight unless I buy, or have built, some sort of storage for them – balancing the audio, etc. That was bad.  
  
By the time the Mambo Movers got all my stuff moved in, PP&M were done, and I had my place to myself. That was good.  
  
Now my bed is assembled and made, ready for collapsing into. I got my workstation set up, as well as my worktable and easel. I still have plenty of boxes to unpack: the pots and pans Robby and I decided were mine, clothes, books, etc. I probably need to do some more shopping – Robert has at least half our joint worldly goods. I guess. Right now I’m too tired to care.  
  
 **19 August 2012** **; Saturday,** **11:20 a.m.**  
  
11:20 a.m…After last night I'm tempted to write 11:11.  
  
Last night was…um…eventful. I’ll try to hit all the high spots.  
  
Brian was here at 7:00 just as he promised, and we drove to the Apollo in his red Jaguar. That’s a car that makes a statement, and the statement is, “Up yours!”   
  
After a bit of guy-car-conversation (“How long have you had it?” [Almost a year.] “Have you ever opened it up? “[Yes.] “How fast did you go?” [135 mph.] “Where the hell did you do that?” [Ohio turnpike at 3:00 a.m.] “How did it hold the road?” [Solidly.]), conversation lagged. I was thinking.  
  
Snuggled in beside Brian in the black leather bucket seat, watching his strong hands guide the gearshift lever through the gears, I tried to remember why I was holding him off. Well, first of all, there was the drinking, drugging, and promiscuous sex that Michael and Ben talked about. Michael’s known Brian since forever, so I know Brian does all those things. But as Michael also said, he couldn’t run two successful businesses if he were out of control. Certainly, that Friday night of the floor picnic, coming home from work, he was sober. Plus which, I’m not puritanical. I’ve been known to drink the odd beer (or more), do a popper or score some E, and while I prefer stable relationships, I have looked for action – and found it - plenty of times. Far be it for me to condemn in others what I indulge in myself.  
  
O.K., so what about how strongly I react to him physically? That threw me for a loop, let me tell you. After we hooked up at Babylon, he dominated me sexually, and that’s just not how it usually works for me. I always tell my partners that we’re equal in bed, but in fact I prefer topping, and I’d say, as a statistician, that I probably top 70% of the time…maybe even more. Who’s on top is not really the point, though. The point is, top or bottom, I am the one who decides who is doing what to whom. Not with Brian. Not for a minute. He called the shots.   
  
On the other hand, we had outstanding sex three times in about twelve hours. That’s a strong argument for doing what Brian wants, when he wants it, how he wants it. Right now I’m working on the theory that a happy Brian makes for a happy Justin. We’ll see.   
  
Finally there’s Brian’s one-and-done policy. _What_ one-and-done policy? _He_ joined Mom’s picnic, _he_ asked me out tonight; _he_ offered to give me a ride. I didn’t pursue _him_. And so what if he never gives me the time of day again? I’ll have had two great nights with him.   
  
I wasn’t thinking deep, serious relationship here anyway. I was thinking ‘fuck buddy.’ I was thinking fuck-buddy-who-lives-a-flight-of-stairs-away. How handy is that?   
  
Back to the concert: I had never attended a concert at the Apollo – just wasn’t anywhere my friends and I went when I was a teenager - nor had I ever spent any time in the older neighborhood where it’s located. Today I found out that one reason we left at 7:00 p.m. for an 8:00 p.m. performance, at a venue less than half an hour away, was parking. There isn’t any. We circled the surrounding blocks for a good fifteen minutes before Brian found street parking that he deemed worthy of the Jag.   
  
The theater itself is an old wooden building, but well maintained. The first floor is standing room only, but we had front row, center seats in the U-shaped balcony. My first thought as we sat down was to make sure I knew where the exits were. I suppressed the urge to walk around and make sure they weren’t chained shut. If anyone tossed a match, the Apollo was going up like Atlanta in “Gone With the Wind.” I wanted to be able to get out.  
  
Jason Hill opened the program. Small guy – okay, about the same size as me – pleasant voice, but the band needed at least one more sound check before the performance. I could only hear him when he was unaccompanied. Not good.   
  
What was good, was Brian. For most of the half hour that Jason performed and the fifteen or so minutes it took to break down his set up and get ready for Rufus, Brian petted me. That sounds odd, but I don’t know how else to describe it. With his arm on the back of my seat, he ran his hand through my hair, rubbed his finger up and down my cheek, massaged my right shoulder, rubbed the back of my neck, etc. Nothing sexual but nonetheless very seductive. I found myself leaning into his hand and shifting to make my neck, my head, more accessible. It was impossible not to respond.  
  
Rufus was everything I’d expected and perhaps even more. I hadn’t expected the sense of humor, though I should have, had I put the right spin on his lyrics. Nor had I expected three new songs. The man continues to be productive, and his lyrics continue to tantalize and move me. His performance was so dynamic that several times I almost forgot about Brian.   
  
The third set was Jeff Marx. Now Jeff isn’t the gay icon Rufus is, but he is sort of a nerd icon, and I’m sort of a nerd, so I was looking forward to his performance. However, during the intermission, after the traffic in the aisles had settled down, Brian stood up. “C’mon,” he said. “We’re going back to the Green Room now.”  
  
 _Huh?_ “We’re going to the Green Room?”  
  
“Yeah. Rufus said to come back while Jeff is on.”  
  
“You know _Rufus_?”  
  
“I told you the tickets were comped.”   
  
No, he didn’t. I’m sure he said he copped the tickets, not that he was comped, but it wasn’t worth arguing about. “How do you know him?”  
  
“He appeared at a GLBT Center fund raiser a couple of years ago.”  
  
I thought for a moment before I asked the question I _had_ to ask. “Top or bottom?”  
  
Brian grinned sardonically. “I don’t bottom for anybody.”  
  
Perhaps that answer was clever phrasing that evaded a clear yes or no. Or...since it was Brian Kinney talking...maybe Rufus bottomed. I shivered.  
  
The Green Room was long and narrow, with tables set up with refreshments at one end. I got a blurry impression of drinks and snacks, out of the corners of my eyes, but my attention was all on finding Rufus.   
  
Rufus found us first. By the time I located him, he was already walking toward us. “Brian,” he said, “it’s good to see you.”  
  
Brian said, “Your show was impressive, as usual. I love the new songs, especially ‘Forgiven Again.’”  
  
“Thanks.” He flapped his hand in my direction. “Introductions?”  
  
Brian smiled his predator’s smile. “This is Justin Taylor. Justin, this is Rufus Wainwright.”  
  
“I know.” I thought frantically for something to say. “I love your music.” Brilliant observation, Justin. Impress the man with your dazzling insights.  
  
Rufus’ eyes flicked up and down, and I thought, Fuck, he’s cruising me. I think Brian thought, Fuck, he’s cruising Justin, because his arm went around my shoulder, and he wrapped his hand around my bicep. He didn’t pull me toward him, but the position that resulted was possessive.  
  
I watched Rufus while he and Brian talked. I didn’t try to participate or even to pay much attention to their conversation. While they caught up on events in their lives, I scrutinized Rufus. He’s taller than I am, shorter than Brian, and his mop of dark hair was at that in-between length. He’s blessed with the kind of hair that looks good no matter how long it is.  No sign of gray but I think he dyes it. I noticed that, in person, he seems more comfortable in his body than he does on the DVDs I’ve watched, and I know for a fact that I’ve watched every single one, even the old ones, with his family.  
  
I thought, Could there be anything more exciting than standing between Brian Kinney and Rufus Wainwright? Well… _yes_. How about a threesome, for instance? I tuned back into their conversation.  
  
Rufus was saying, “So I’ll be in New York for most of the next two months.”  
  
Brian said, “I’ll check my calendar and give you a call next week.”  
  
“Yeah,” Rufus said and turned toward a man standing at his elbow. 

 

Apparently the threesome was not in my future. Fifteen minutes ago I was thrilled to be meeting Rufus; now I’m disappointed because we aren’t going to fuck. How absurd. But he wanted me, I know he did. And Brian knows it, too.

Back in the car, Brian said, “Do you want to stop for a drink?”

I’d only had a handful of trail mix before the show, so I was hungry. We ended up going to Cervantes for tapas and a couple of beers and some conversation that put me strongly in mind of a first date. I kept that observation to myself.

It was close to midnight by the time we started home. As we pulled away from the curb, I said, “Remember your promise not to touch me in the car?”

Brian shot me a quick look. “Yes?”

“Keep it in mind.” He hadn’t put any moves on me, just the petting and the proprietary arm around the shoulder. I was changing all that. I put my hand on his thigh.

Brian kept his eyes on the road.

I sat quietly until his jeans started to warm under my hand, then I slowly slid my hand up his thigh and inwards, until I was cupping him.

Brian said, “Are you trying to seduce me?”

“Not exactly. I’m not trying, I _am_ seducing you. And I’m auditioning as well.” I unsnapped his top button and slid my hand down his warm abdomen as far as I could.

“Auditioning?”

“For the position of fuck buddy.” I waited a beat, but he didn’t say anything. His dick responded for him.

“Look,” I continued. “I’m too busy for a relationship right now, but I’m not too busy for sex.” I paused for a moment and thought about what I’d just said. “Actually, I can’t remember ever being too busy for sex. Anyway, there you are, one flight above me, and I thought that it would just be…” I hesitated, “well, convenient for both of us to be able to….” I let my voice trail off. When I had rehearsed this mentally, it went a lot more smoothly. “Well, what do you think?”

No answer, no change of expression, just a jerk of his dick. Thank God I had my fingers on his barometer. He turned the wheel hard and said, “ _I_ think we’re home,” and he pulled into his parking space next to the building.

I watched for a moment as he unwound himself from the car, and then I got out, a lot more easily, and followed him into the building. He pulled the elevator door open, then pushed it shut as soon as I was in. He punched the number for his floor, turned, and pinned me to the wall. Before I could react, his mouth was covering mine, and he was pushing his tongue deep into my mouth, filling it, then thrusting even deeper. I retaliated by sticking my hand back down his jeans and wrapping it around his cock.

He jerked against me, once, without ever removing his tongue from my mouth. The elevator rattled to a stop, but we didn’t stop kissing for another minute or so. Finally Brian wrenched himself away from me, grabbed me by the belt, pulled me across the landing, and slammed my back up against the door. He looked at me hotly for a moment and said, “Don’t move.”

I couldn’t speak. I nodded, and he turned and crossed the landing in a couple of long strides to pull down the elevator’s gate.

My dick was hard and weeping. I unsnapped my jeans and stuck my hand in my pants, closing my eyes as I grasped myself. Then Brian was on me again, roughly jerking my hand out of my pants and growling, “That’s not allowed.” I moaned and squirmed as he pinned my hands to the door above my head. When he had trapped them both with one hand, he pulled down my zipper with his other hand and shoved my pants down until my dick sprang free. His fingers feathered up and down my shaft, teasing, tantalizing.

I gasped. “God…Brian…please…fuck me.”

He pushed his hand up under my shirt and covered my tit, rolling the nub with his palm. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to fuck me." He raised his eyebrow. "Hard,” I said.

“Are you begging?” He moved his hand back to my dick.

“Yes.”

He cradled my balls, then rolled them together gently. “Say it.” His voice was husky.

“I’m begging, Brian. Now. Please.”

“Right here? On the landing? Suppose someone stops here by mistake?” His voice dropped almost to a whisper. “Like that young couple on your floor who think you’re such a nice guy? Nina and Mark?”

I opened my eyes. Shit. I think I just got harder. “Yes. Here. I don’t care where. God. I don’t _care_.”

He chuckled, a low, dirty chuckle, and stuck his tongue in my ear. I whimpered, and he sucked on my earlobe, then moved his mouth to that sensitive spot right below my ear. (Why the hell are there all those nerve-endings there, anyway?) I tried to rub my dick against his leg. I guess that wasn’t allowed either, because he stepped back a fraction, then let go of my hands, pulled me away from the door, and started turning me in place. I cooperated, pushing off my loafers as I turned. My pants followed, and as soon as I could spread my legs, I did, bracing myself against the door and sticking my butt out.

Brian slid his hand up under my shirt, then around to my ribs, down along my flank, and between my legs, stroking my balls. Before I could protest that this was not the time for gentle, his hands were back on my ass, pulling my cheeks apart, and first one, then two fingers were opening me up. Thank God. I sighed. Moments later, his fingers were gone, and I both felt and heard him searching his pockets, ripping a condom packet, popping the top on lube. Then his hands were on my ass cheeks again, spreading me wide. I moved my hands a little lower, shifted my ass, and braced the top of my head against the door.

He press…press…pressed against my asshole, and then, with a push and a grunt, he was in, past my sphincter. He stopped, and we both held our positions, panting, as our bodies adjusted. Then I pushed back, driving him deeper and forcing an involuntary whine out of my throat. Brian dropped his head on my shoulder and started moving in and out. I thought, Now I know why they call it ‘banging.’ Despite my efforts to keep my head pressed up against the metal door, I lost contact every time he pulled back and hit it again with a slight clang on his every thrust.

I dropped one hand to my dick…I was so close…but Brian caught it and pulled it away. “No,” he groaned, and then he was coming hard, shaking and filling the condom. He was still holding my hand, clutching it to my chest with his. Sweet but unsatisfying. “Bri-i-in,” I pleaded.

He pulled out, tied off the condom, and finished kicking off his pants and shoes. I turned and smiled up at him and ran my fingers lightly over my cock. “Now it’s my turn,” I said.

Brian slid the heavy door open. He cocked an eyebrow at me.

“I get to fuck you now,” I said.

“Nope,” Brian said. “Wrong.” He grabbed my shirt and pulled me into a kiss. “But get in here and I’ll suck you off.”

Okay. That would work….

Damn! There’s someone at the door. I’ll get back to this – this isn’t the end of the story. 

 

Go to [Dominance - ](http://www.livejournal.com/users/chering/18197.html)


	18. Chapter 18

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**8/19/12** **,** **10:40 AM**  

Every gay boy needs a fag-hag and I’m lucky to have Cynthia.  I used to have Lindsay, but she forfeited the position when it became apparent she was a lesbian.  Not that I have anything against that or her.  She is the mother of my child, after all.  However, it’s just not the same to drunkenly discuss the merits of cock length and girth with someone who prefers pussy.  

 

Cynthia, on the other hand, is golden.  I realize that being a true fag hag is often times a tough, thankless job with even the most compassionate of queers.  Being mine must make her worthy of a Congressional Medal of Honor.  I know I can be a real bastard and, while most people only see it from one aspect of my life, she gets both the personal and professional angles.   

 

 

She and I go back to the early days at Vangard when Marty Ryder was the boss.  I started as an Assistant Account Executive, and she was in the secretarial pool.  While we didn’t actually work together back then, many nights we were the last ones out of the place.  We were two lone lights, shining in cubicles half a floor apart, with only the sound of clicking keyboards filling the space.  That is until the night I heard her frantically kicking the shit out of the coke machine in the break room.   I went in to see what all the fuss was about and found out the thing just devoured her last two quarters.  She was tired, thirsty and hungry and still had a good portion of a mass mailing project to get out before she could call it a night.  So, while she produced labels, I ordered a pizza and produced a six-pack.  I helped her stuff envelopes over our shared meal, and after three beers she let her guard down and kissed me.  After a joint, she became the first person at the agency to find out I was gay.  By then she was too wasted to care or feel embarrassed about the kiss, and our symbiotic relationship had begun.   

 

It worked on a number of levels.  Of course there was the obvious rationalization; no risk.  No sexual tension equated to no need for acting, no possibility of rejection, no falling in love, no awkward office romance, no messy breakup and no commitment issues.   In addition, she, like me, was terminally single by choice, smart, and possessed of a stellar work ethic. 

 

When I was promoted to Senior Account Exec, I got to hire my own Administrative Assistant. I didn’t have to look far.  By then we had known each other for nearly two years and had shared much more than the initial pizza and beer.  She knew me so well and we were so much alike that she could purchase clothing for me and actually be assured I would wear it.  Honestly, she is the only person I can say that of.

 

So, by the time Justin Taylor arrived on the scene, I knew who I could go to for advice and that the fact that if I did, it wouldn't be broadcast all over town.  

 

Once again, her advice worked.  Now that I knew where to find him, I was planning on slipping a note into his mailbox regarding the Rufus concert.  Instead, I walked into Woody's last Sunday evening and who should be sitting alone at the bar but one Justin Taylor.   We non-verbally acknowledged each other, and then I racked up a game of pool for myself.  I certainly didn't want to appear over-eager.  

 

He watched patiently and when I finished, he was casually talking to Ted, of all people.  I felt it was my civic duty to rescue him from that situation. 

 

Once Theodore had taken his leave, I asked if he was interested in my spare ticket.  The boy must have major intimacy issues or something because, while he readily accepted the concert invitation, he nearly broke out in a cold sweat over riding to and from the event with me.  I found myself once again wondering why I was putting forth so much effort to convince him when my eyes trailed down his chest to his crotch and derriere.  Enough said.   

 

The concert itself was uneventful.  I've seen Rufus many times over the years, and it's been a pleasure watching him rise from performing in New York City dives to arenas that seat tens of thousands.  In my opinion, the smaller venue of Pittsburgh's Apollo Theatre is optimal for his talent.  Always entertaining, the actual highlight of this concert, for me, was the fact that I was sitting next to Justin Taylor.  

 

He was like a kid in a candy store, and it was a joy to watch. In order to get him in my car I had to promise to keep my hands off of him.  However, once we sat down in the theatre, all bets were off.  It had been over two weeks since I touched that porcelain skin. If he was going to run off on me when the concert ended, I was damn sure going to get my fill of it during the performance.  He responded to my fingers favorably, though, making me fairly confident he'd be sticking around.   

 

In an effort to guarantee that outcome, I brought him backstage and introduced him to Rufus.  I had the pleasure of meeting the man a couple of years ago at a fundraising event.  Significant contributors were invited to a post concert bash, and a select few, talented, handsome, homosexual contributors were invited to my loft for a post-post concert bash.  Let's just say "Rufus the Baptist" converted us all.  The man knows how to entertain on and off of the stage.

 

Justifiably impressed, Miss Taylor was putty in my hands after that.  We stopped to grab a bite to eat and then headed back to our building.  I'm not sure if it was Rufus, the beers, or just being horny after having my hands on him all evening, but something gave him the courage in the car to grab my dick and propose a fuck buddy relationship.  

 

I was silent for a moment just trying to comprehend this pleasant turn of events when he continued.  I have quickly learned that when you are silent around Justin Taylor, he feels the insatiable need to fill the void.  He immediately attempted to justify his request, humorously stumbling all over his rationalization and ending with an anxious, "Well, what do you think?"   

 

Maybe it's the sadistic streak in me, or maybe it's just that this boy is so fucking cute when he wants something, but I couldn't bring myself to answer.  I waited until we were alone on the elevator and let my actions do that for me.  I kissed him forcefully and ended up fucking him on the landing.  It was quick, hot and satisfying.  For me at least.  

 

He kept trying to jerk himself off but I knew I had to prevent that if I was going to get his ass for the night. When I finished, I promised him relief on the other side of the door, and he greedily accepted.   

 

Now that I had him inside, my plan was to blow him quickly and then follow it up with a shower massage, rim job, and a slow, leisurely fuck before I put him to bed.  But that was not to be.  The mere mention of a shared shower experience set him off.  He let me know, in no uncertain terms, that he was going downstairs to his own shower and his own bed, ALONE. 

 

I was in no mood for an argument.  Up until that point the evening had gone reasonably well, but if all he could manage was one orgasm a night I was going to have to seriously reconsider this fuck buddy arrangement anyway.  So I accepted his announcement and escorted him back to my door with his shoes in my hand.  

 

He might be going home to sleep, but my cock had other plans before it was ready to retire for the night.   Sliding the door back into place, I bolted it securely and headed to the kitchen.  I grabbed a bottle of JB and drank directly from it, then poured myself another for the trip to the bathroom.  I turned on the shower and let it regulate while I removed my shirt and stepped out of my pants.  He was probably doing the same thing, one floor below me.  What a fucking waste of water.   

 

Stepping in, I felt that lightning-like rush of nerves racing through my body as the initial blast of hot water hit my skin.  It felt good, but instead of flowing through me and leaving me relaxed, the tension just seemed to settle in my dick.  I soaped my body and closed my eyes thinking I really should be doing this to someone else.  I trailed my hand to my cock and began to slowly milk it while I recalled the vision of him doing the same thing just moments earlier on my landing.  _“God…Brian…please…fuck me,”_  

 

I tightened my grip as I increased the speed.  His ass was so tight.  He probably keeps it that way by only doling it out in small doses.  Well, I’ve got to tell you, Mr. Taylor, twice a month does not a fuck buddy make.  But sweet Jesus, the picture of him, bent over, hands on my door, legs spread with that ass jutting toward me.  _“I want you to fuck me.  Hard.”_

 

I started to feel the familiar tingling in my balls as they rose, skin tightening around them.  I maneuvered my free hand down my crack and circled my hole.  This should be your tongue, you little fucker.  And for an instant it was.  I pressed in and imagined just that, silky, warm and wet. _“I’m begging, Brian. Now. Please.”_

 

Now…yes.  I sighed as I felt the spasms begin.  _“I’m begging, Brian, I’m begging.”_ Fuck yes.  Now.  

 

“Justin,” I said through clenched teeth as my cum splattered against the shower door.  My legs were shaking and my breath was coming out in uneven, ragged, gasps.  I leaned back against the slick tiles and let the water clean me of its own accord.  

 

I could feel the liquor working its magic as my heartbeat slowed.  The room was no longer spinning, just rotating in a soothing, surreal orbit.  I knew I would be able to sleep then and I did. 

 

But now the tension is building again and my dick is beginning to twitch.  I’ve got to go down there.  Maybe his place will give me some clue as to what goes on in that blond head of his.  What makes him ask for one thing and then run before he gets it?  I’m going to take control of this situation, and he’s going to start playing by my rules.  

 

Wish I could just call you, Cyn, and you could make sense out of him for me. I’m afraid I’m on my own for this one.    
  
  



	19. Chapter 19

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**19 August 2012; Saturday, 2:15 p.m.**

He just left, after spending about three hours here. I wonder if having Brian Kinney for a fuck buddy is always going to be this time-consuming. It’s not just the time he’s here, but it’s my compulsion to write it all down. Presumably that part – the writing down – will slack off. After all, a fuck is just a fuck, isn’t it? How much will I have to say about the 30th fuck or the next fuck after that?

Speaking of fuck buddies, I wrote up most of last night’s events before I was so rudely…and pleasurably…interrupted. I want to get down the rest of the details now, before any more time passes. I am not good about writing up stuff I skip, so it's now or never.

So…after the concert and the sex on the landing, Brian pulled me into his loft for my blowjob. I didn’t make it very far into his apartment. As soon as he slid the door shut, he pushed me up against it, dropped to his knees, and blew me. Afterwards he stood up, kissed me, and said, “Now I’ve had you on both sides of the door.” Yeah. Now, every time I see that damn door, I’ll have X-rated thoughts. Thanks, Brian.

Next, he grabbed me by my shirt and said, “We need a shower.”

I said, “No. I’m going downstairs to shower in my own shower and sleep in my own bed.” _‘Always begin as you mean to go on’_ is a prudent policy, in my opinion. Fuck buddies do not share a shower, then spend the night together, which is where I saw this evening ending up. We should each pursue our own, separate lives, just coming together to…come.

I think Brian was disconcerted, but he slid the door open for me, handed me my shoes – I had already pulled on my pants – and banged it shut again before I reached the stairs. Hard to judge what he was thinking. I have to say, though, I didn’t spend much time worrying about Brian. I was tired and fucked out. I showered, I went to bed, I slept.

This morning, when I opened my door – the conventional kind, with a knob and hinges and everything – there was Brian, his shoulder propped up against my doorframe. “Wanna fuck, buddy?” he said.

Well, I guess _that_ cleared _that_ up.

Before I could answer, Brian pushed past me into the apartment. I said, “Come on in,” as sarcastically as I could, but he ignored me. He started prowling around, looking at everything, the way a cat does when dropped into new surroundings…a very large, very sexy cat. I could practically see his tail twitching.

He padded on bare feet past the kitchen and stopped dead when he saw the fireplace wall. He stared for a long minute, nodded his head once affirmatively, and went over to inspect my a/v set up.  He looked it over and asked questions about where I bought it (PP&M), why I chose what I did (I relied on PP&M), how satisfactory PP&M were (so far, so good), and how difficult it is to operate (I’m learning).

His next stop was the kitchen. He was not impressed. “I don’t see your frilly little apron,” he said. Okay, so it’s not an ultra modern stainless steel kitchen like he has.  I’ve got pine cabinets with glass doors, blue Corel countertops, and a pergo floor. Not exciting, but not terrible, either, in my opinion. The appliances all work, and there’s enough cabinet space for my stuff. So it doesn’t make an esthetic statement. So?

Once he had opened every single cabinet door and drawer – what the hell does Brian think I’m hiding under the sink? – he turned to my one bookcase on the wall across from the kitchen and looked from its full shelves to the boxes of books, still unpacked, next to it, and back again.

“I want shelving built in on that wall,” I said. I looked at Brian and inspiration struck. “Do you know anybody I could call?” He did, so I got a pencil and paper and took down Harry’s name and number, whoever Harry is. I’ll bet that if he does work for Brian, he’s more than competent. And probably hot, too, now that I think about it.

After Brian had inspected the books that were on the shelves and reshelved a novel that had gotten mixed up the Econ books, he turned back toward the front room. I panicked. I suddenly remembered that I hadn’t exited my journal when I went to the door. Fuck. All I needed was for Brian to take a look at my monitor and see, _“He grabbed my shirt and pulled me into a kiss. ‘But get in here and I’ll suck you off.’”_ Yeah, that would make for an interesting conversation.

Fortunately, just before I started to hyperventilate, Brian decided to go up the spiral stairs and prowl around the sleeping loft. “You know, a lot of people make their bed when they get up,” he yelled down. “And this bathroom sucks.” It does not. It is a satisfactory and functional bathroom, with a tub, a sink, a toilet, and a linen closet. It is just fine.

In the meantime, I had saved my file and exited my journal while he was still on his way up the stairs.

Thank God I did. As soon as he was done critiquing my bedroom and bath, he was down the stairs and headed for my workstation. He sat down in my ergonomic chair and rummaged around in my PC, asking questions about my Linux operating system and Firefox and commenting on my graphics software. He swiveled on my chair and looked at my easel and worktable. “What are you working on?”

_None of your business_ didn’t strike me as being a very effective response, but I really didn’t care to show him my most recent sketches. Instead I pulled out a couple of the sketches I made at the playground last week and, when he’d given them all the attention they deserved…i.e., not much…he said, “What else?”

“Nothing else,” I said. “I’ve only been in here a week. I haven’t had time to do anything else.” Sounded convincing to me.

Brian looked at me speculatively. “What a terrible liar you are.”

I scowled.

He said, “First of all, you’re blushing. And secondly, I can see a canvas over there, on the worktable.”

Damn my fair skin anyway. However, the canvas was not a problem. I said, “Look at the canvas. I just started preparing it this morning. I put the first coat of gesso on; it should be ready to sand now.”

“O.K.. So tell me about what you’re planning to paint.”

Hell if I was going to. I went up on my toes, grabbed the back of his head, and drew his head down so that I could kiss him slowly, lingeringly. “I thought you were here to fuck, buddy,” I said, against his lips, “not inspect me and my belongings.”

“Oh, yeah,” he murmured, “right,” and took control of the kiss.

What with one thing and another, I’m starting to catch on to how to manage Brian Kinney.

He was wearing a white T-shirt with his old jeans. I broke the kiss and ran my hands up under his shirt. Brian responded by pulling the shirt over his head and tossing it in the direction of the kitchen. For a moment, I pulled back and just looked at his lean, elegant body. Most of us are improved by our clothes. Brian is improved when he removes his…and he looks damn good dressed.

I gave him a push in the direction of the couch, then followed him over to it. He sat down and I stood between his knees for a moment, looking down at him, before I dropped to my knees. Brian leaned forward and wrapped his hand around the back of my head, holding me still while we kissed. His lips moved over mine, soft, warm, and intent. I knelt up to allow him maximum access to my mouth as I ran my hands over his torso, all supple skin over muscle and bone.

I broke the kiss, dropped down a little, buried my nose in the dip between his collarbone and his neck, and sniffed. God, I love the smell of Brian Kinney. This was only the third time we’ve been together, but already all I need are a few sniffs to turn me on. I nuzzled his neck, and he responded with a small hum and a hand in my hair. Then I rubbed my unshaven cheek along his chest, and his hum turned into a low growl. I smiled to myself and turned my head to lick his nipple, then blow on it, and the growl grew stronger. I rubbed my belly up against his dick – just checking! Uh-huh. His dick liked my tactics.

I sat back on my heels, smiled up at Brian, and undid his top snap. “Go to it, Sunshine,” he said and bent forward to kiss me once more, fast and demanding. I kissed back, but I thought, Sunshine? What the fuck? Then I was unsnapping the rest of his snaps and his dick was springing out, hard and ready, and I lost track of my questions. Sucking dick is serious business, and I needed to pay attention.

I grasped his dick around its base, just above his balls, and squeezed his shaft gently. Next I ran my finger over the tip, spread the pre-cum around, then licked it off, slowly, one tiny lick after another. I continued to concentrate my attentions on his cap, enclosing it with my lips and pressing them together as hard as I could. I probed his slit with my tongue and felt him shift in response. Oh yes, that was a popular move.

After a few minutes of teasing, I took his whole cock into my mouth and started to suck, moving up and down on his shaft, massaging the vein on the underside with my tongue before each up stroke…tightening my hold on the shaft right above his balls…I wanted him to come so hard that his eyes rolled back in his head and all he saw were stars. He was getting close…I could feel his body tightening…his head was thrown back and he was gripping my left shoulder so hard I was going to have bruise marks tomorrow…I gave one, last hard suck and he came into my mouth with an explosive groan.

When the after-shocks had died down, and he was all cleaned up, I sank back on my knees, looking up at him. Brian said, “Are you going to do something about that boner?” He snapped up his jeans, stuck his hand in his pocket, and tossed me some lube. “I want to watch,” he said.

I can do that. I sat cross-legged and pushed my sweatpants down far enough to be able to extricate my balls and dick. Brian shook his head. “Don’t be so lazy. Pick up your ass and take those fucking pants off. I want to see the show.”

Okay. And just so you know, Brian, your stage directions are having exactly the effect you probably want. I’m hard again.

“That’s better. Now take your time lubing up.”

Great. Just what I need: more directions. Like I never jerked off before? I squirted some lube into the palm of my hand, then circled my hand and started moving it up and down and around.

“Slower.”

Jesus, I was already going too slow. He’s trying to kill me. I slowed down even more. By the time I’d covered my dick, it was throbbing like a motorcycle on idle.

“Okay, hold your hand still and push into it.”

Was he crazy? All I wanted to do was come, as quickly and as hard as I could and holding my hand still wasn’t the way to do it. I held my hand still, jerked my hips, and pushed into it.

“Do you know what you’re fucking?”

I shook my head dumbly. I was fast passing the point of speech. Unfortunately, he wasn’t.

“Tighten up that fist, Sunshine, because you’re fucking my hot, tight asshole.”

I tightened my grip and pushed into my hand. God, I needed to come, now. I shut my eyes and concentrated as I pushed again.

“Look at me,” Brian said sharply. “I want you to watch me watching you.”

I looked up and his eyes were fixed on my crotch. I jerked my hips forward, and he unsnapped his jeans again. Another jerk of my hips, and his hand covered his dick. Oh, God, that’s not helping, Brian. I moved my hand a little lower, shortening the arc, so that each push was more effective.

Brian said, “I saw that. Watch it. No more.”

I was beyond listening to Brian. I dropped my head, looking down at my dick, hard and glistening and about to burst, and I pumped my hand up and down, hard, until I came like a rocket going up. My come splattered across the floor, and I bent over and wheezed.

Brian reached over and pushed a bunch of tissues into my hand. “That was all right for the first time, Sunshine,” he said, “but next time you better follow instructions. I won't always be so kind."

So apparently there will be a next time, and I do have a fuck buddy. Not to mention a nickname.  



	20. Chapter 20

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**8/20/12**  “What do you mean, for the first time?”  Justin asked.  “Are you expecting me to perform for you on a regular basis?”   

I had just instructed him to jerk off for me after thoroughly inspecting his place.  It was hot, and I was bothered.  I found no clues that gave me any insight into his aberrant behavior.   

“Well, if we’re going to be fuck buddies, I expect a lot of variety.”  I told him as I rose from his couch and made my way to the door.  Glancing back over my shoulder I added, “And I expect plenty of fucking.  No more of this one-and-done shit.  Be at my place at eight.” I walked up the stairs, confidently knowing he would comply.  

At 8:03 the knock came, and I answered it; naked.  His eyes grew wide as they shifted from my face to my cock.  "Are you alone?" he asked.   "Not anymore," I told him, clutching his t-shirt and tugging him over the threshold.   

I pulled him close and clamped my mouth down on his.  He tasted of whiskey; apparently he had had to shore up his nerves before making the trip.  I held the kiss as I reached behind him with my other hand and slid the door shut.  He jumped a bit when it came to a crashing halt inches from the back of his head.   

"Relax, Justin," I whispered, our lips close enough that they touched as I spoke.  I placed my hand on his shoulder and ran it down his arm, clasping his hand gently when our fingers touched.  I led him to the bedroom and sat down on the edge of the bed.  

He stood in the doorway, eyeing me with suspicion.   "Strip for me."  It didn't come out as a request or a command, just a simple statement.   

He cocked his head and a whimsical grin broke out on his face. "Is this how it's going to be, Brian?"   

He was unbuttoning his shirt slowly, and his eyes were focused on mine.  I didn't answer, just held his gaze.  He dropped his shirt to the floor and bit his lower lip as he contemplated his next statement. "You call all the shots?"  He unbuttoned his 501's.  One...two...three...I sucked in a deep breath and began stroking myself as he dropped his pants to the floor and stepped out of them; already hard.    

He walked toward me and pushed back on my shoulders until I was lying flat on the bed.  With his knee he nudged mine open and stepped between them.  Bending low he stopped inches in front of my face as our dicks bumped together.  “This had better be a reciprocal arrangement,” he told me, “or I’m not interested.”  

 

I chuckled and grabbed the back of his head, pulling him to me.   Hooking my leg behind his knees I pulled him up and I flipped him onto the mattress.   

Our positions reversed, I was now looking down into those amazing blue eyes.   My mouth was once again on his, my tongue gliding past his teeth, probing and bringing his back into mine. My body was on top of him, pinning him to the mattress.  He fought it for a minute, writhing under me, attempting to break free, and then he gave in and I felt his body soften.  His arms enveloped me, squeezing tightly and then rubbing down my torso to my ass where his fingers began kneading me and working their way into my crack.   

“I want to fuck you, Brian,” he said as he massaged the outside of my hole.  It might have been his turn IF we had a reciprocal arrangement, but who ever agreed to that?  I sure as hell wasn’t ready.  Not nearly ready to take that leap.   

I shook my head, reared up on my knees and sat back on his thighs.  “Sorry, but you have a lot to learn.”  I told him as I grabbed his wrists and brought them up over his head. 

 Capturing both in one hand I held them there and kissed him softly.  “I’m not saying it will never happen, Justin, but it’s not happening now.”  I thought it only fair to ask, “Are you still interested?”   

He paused and appeared to be lost in thought.  Then his eyes zeroed back in on mine, and he nodded ever so slightly.  “All right then,” I continued, “let the games begin.”   

Still holding his arms above his head, I slid off of him and settled on his right side.

 

“Spread your legs.” I instructed.  He complied and I trapped his right thigh between mine and cupped his balls with my free hand.  I rolled them gently and ran my thumb up and down the crease that separates them.   

He sighed and began to rock his hips upward.  “You need to learn to slow down, Justin.” I told him. “Make it last.  You’re always in such a hurry to get off and get out.  Just relax and enjoy this.  There’s no limit to the length of time you can remain aroused or the pleasure you can derive from it if you will let me show you.”  

I was rubbing up his cock now and stopped just under his tip.   “It’s so sensitive right here, isn’t it?”  I asked.  I moved my thumb up over his slit to gather the pre-cum and bring it back down, circling the now lubricated spot.   

“Yessss,” he hissed. 

“Control it, Justin.  Enjoy the sensation but don’t let it overtake you.  When it gets to be too much, tell me.”  I continued to rub, slowly, then slightly increasing the pressure as his breath quickened.  I let go of his wrists now and slid my body down, bringing my face in line with his balls.  As I continued to stroke him, I licked the underside of his scrotum and sucked one of his testicles into my mouth.   

“Oh, God, Brian…Stop.”  My hand obeyed but my mouth didn’t.  I continued to suck on one ball and then the other as my hands came to his hips and my fingers curved under his buttocks.  He was panting as I lifted my head.   “Doing okay up there?”  I asked, and he nodded in quick agreement.  I reached for the lube and squirted some on the tips of two of my fingers.  “I’m going to massage you some more, Justin. Don’t come.” 

“I’ll try,” he responded in a breathy whisper. 

“Concentrate on keeping your breath deep and even,” I instructed him.  I was kneeling between his legs now.  With the lubed fingers of my right hand, I reached behind his scrotum and stroked from his balls to his hole.  

With the initial touch he sucked in his breath sharply and then raised himself slightly on his elbows to get a better view.   “It feels so good, Brian, I’m not gonna last.”   

“Sure you will,” I told him.  “I’ll keep it slow.  Just breathe deep, control it…don’t let it control you.”  With each circling motion I was taking in more and more of his opening, dipping a finger in and then just as quickly out.  He was rocking with my movement, trying to catch that instant and push down. “Fuck me, Brian, I don’t want to wait.”  

I stopped rubbing him and brought my hands up to the sides of his face.  Holding his head still, I leaned up and kissed him, softly once more. Breaking the kiss, I said, “But then it’s all over, and you’ll want to run home and shower.  This is only an appetizer, Justin.  Once you learn to control this, you can experience orgasm after orgasm before you ejaculate. We’ve got all the time in the world.”  

“Okay, but let’s consider this my first lesson and I’ve waited long enough,” he pleaded, “so fuck me,  fuck me now…please, and then I’ll shower here.”  

 

With that little pronouncement I lost it.  Laughing, I lifted his legs and inserted a finger.  “All right,” I told him, “it was a valiant initial effort.”  He was grinning too, and when a second finger joined the first, he threw his head back and shut his eyes tight.   

I circled inside of him, bumping his prostate and eliciting ecstatic moans from deep inside his throat.  He was touching himself and watching him do it was making me leak.  

“I’m ready, Brian.  Really…I’ve waited long enough.”  

 

I picked up the condom I had grabbed earlier, tore open the package and rolled it on.  Replacing my fingers with my dick I attempted a slow steady pace to further prolong this session but Justin would have none of it.  He bucked against me wildly.  “Faster, Brian,” he insisted, “fast and hard.”  

And who was I to argue?  I gave him what he wanted, and his hand between us gave to me also.  Watching him pleasure himself was driving me closer and closer to the edge. He only lasted another minute or two, and I followed right behind him.  

Unfolding ourselves from each other, he chuckled and brought his hands to his face, covering it. I heard a muffled, “That was intense.” 

“Yes, it was,” I replied turning my head and looking over at him, “and it can continue to be if you quit acting like a fairy tale princess.” 

“Me!” he countered, playfully poking me in the ribs, “You’re the arrogant, self-centered child who refuses to play fair.”  

“Child?”  I grabbed that hand that was poking me and pinned it down while at the same time used my other one to begin tickling him.  “Listen, pretty boy, when you can out last me, we’ll talk about playing fair.”  

This is when I made a discovery that will serve me well in the future.  In a post-coital state, Justin Taylor is very ticklish. 

“Stop!” he cried as he squirmed on the bed, “You win…you win.” 

“That’s better.”  I told him as he struggled to catch his breath, “See, you’re a quick learner, you can do it.  Now get your ass in the bathroom, and call me when the water is hot.”    

He got up and I lit a cigarette, thinking this is just what I had wanted, wasn’t it?  A convenient, hot fuck buddy that didn’t bore me to tears when my dick wasn’t up his ass.  Someone who’d fuck and leave.  Yup, Justin Taylor fit the bill perfectly.  Well, almost perfectly.  Why didn’t I want him to leave? 


	21. Chapter 21

**30 September 2012** **– Sunday,** **10:30 a.m.**  

Tomorrow will be two months to the day since I got to Pittsburgh. The trees haven’t started turning yet, but their ‘autumnal green’ looks tattered and worn. All of sudden I’m noticing that the days are shorter – that it’s barely light when I get up in the morning – and that there’s a nip in the air. Like Chicago, I suspect that by November winter will be on our doorstep.

 

Another couple of weeks and Brian and I will have been fuck buddies for two months. Frankly, that’s working out better than I expected, far better. When we made our agreement, I knew he was a club rat and liked to trick, so I had my doubts on how long it would last. Michael and Ben made it very clear that he liked variety and feared commitment. I figured that once my novelty wore off, I’d see him less and less, but that hasn’t happened. 

 

We are very compatible sexually. We both want and need a lot of sex, and…except for Brian’s reluctance to bottom…I’m working on that…we’re both adventurous. He still likes to hit the bars Friday night and Saturday, winding up at Babylon afterwards. I usually tag along on Fridays, but once a week is enough for me. Surprisingly, more often than not, Brian winds up in my bed on Saturday nights, too. Since we fuck two or three other times during the week, I can only conclude that he’s not getting much elsewhere. That’s not what Michael told me to expect, but I’m happy. I don’t particularly care to tom-cat around, especially when I’m getting the good stuff at home.  Which I am. I definitely am.

 

 

**12 October 2012** **, Friday,** **10:30 p.m.** Tonight’s entry is going to be a change of pace from my regular routine of stupid student stories, complaints about the outrageous price of asparagus, critiques of the movies I’ve watch, and the usual moaning about how my book is progressing (or not); in other words, the usual mundane details that fill up these pages. It’s even going to be a change from my numerous descriptions of how Brian fucked me. Oh, he fucked me, all right, but it was a very different kind of fuck. 

Ben and Michael have a tradition of hosting Friday night dinners for their little circle. Ted and Blake are regulars; Emmett usually comes alone; and once even my mom and Tucker were in attendance.  Of course Hunter and his fiancée are there as often as he can take a break from med school, and surprisingly, although Brian complains, he hasn’t missed a Friday night in the past two months.  

I know that for sure because, back in August, he started taking me with him. The first time I felt a bit like a party-crasher, but everybody made me feel so welcome that I didn’t need any encouragement to keep on joining them. In fact, I like the feeling of inclusion, of catching up on everybody’s doings once a week and of having people…besides my mother…who are interested in my activities. 

 

Early on, Ben and Michael made it clear to me that I was welcome with or without Brian. They seemed doubtful about his regular attendance, but in the last seven weeks, he hasn’t missed a Friday. He didn’t miss tonight, either…the prick.

 

He made a late entrance, as usual. He’s almost always the last to arrive. I was already there. I like helping Michael set the table, I like seeing everybody and socializing, and I enjoy just hanging out. This time, Brian’s late arrival was particularly dramatic. He was not alone. Tucked under his arm was a twink, a kid who didn’t look old enough to drink legally, someone I’d never seen before. He was almost as tall as Brian, with a little stockier build, midnight black hair and Mediterranean looks. With his olive skin, large, dark brown eyes, and strong features, he could have been Greek or Spanish or Italian. I don’t know; I never learned his last name. His first name was Kevin. And he and Brian were both more than half shot.

 

I was in the dining room, putting out the wineglasses, when Brian made his entrance. Just inside the door, he stopped and smiled a sloppy smile at Ben. “I hope you don’t mind me bringing another guest with me.”

 

Ben muttered some meaningless civilities while every other head swiveled in my direction. I don’t have the control Brian has over my facial expressions. I’m sure the shock I felt was clearly written all over my face  

 

My first thought, ridiculously enough, was, _Thank God Mom and Tucker aren’t here tonight_. Then I thought, _How could he!_ and I could feel myself flushing with anger.

 

Ben stood up and held out his hand for Brian’s coat, but Michael rushed out of the kitchen and up to Brian. “Brian, I don’t think this is such a good idea….”

 

I interrupted him. “No, Michael, it’s all right. We’ll just set an extra place at the table.” _Why the hell did I say that?_ I listened to my own voice, amazed that I wasn’t screaming. I sounded stressed, I thought, but not as angry as I felt. 

 

Brian handed his coat and the twink’s to Ben. “Thanks, Justin,” he said. He turned to the boy and said, “Justin is very mature. And very polite. Say Hello to Justin, Kevin.”

 

Kevin said, “Hi,” without taking his eyes off Brian. _Yes, Brian is amazing for his age, Kevin, but for God’s sake, he’s old enough to be your father. So why are you looking at him like he’s the second coming?_ Damned if I could figure it out, any more than I could figure out why I hadn’t encouraged Michael to throw them both out. 

 

I turned my back and went out to the kitchen to get another place setting and – more importantly – finish off my wine, refill my glass, empty it, and refill it again. I didn’t feel markedly better after the second glass, but I was afraid that if I chug-a-lugged the third, I’d throw up.

 

Michael shifted the place settings around and sent me upstairs for an eighth chair. By the time I got back, he was already seating people. I was on the same side as Ted and Blake, at Ben’s end of the table. Emmett was directly across from me, with Kevin next to him, and Brian between Kevin and Michael, who was opposite Ben. In other words, Brian and I were about as far apart as we could be.

 

At first, the placements worked well. Both Ted and Ben are adept at smoothing over awkward social situations, and Blake and Michael kept up the conversation at their end of the table. Brian seemed to be mostly silent, pushing his food around on his plate and downing three glasses of wine in quick succession. I had plans to excuse myself as soon as I decently could and high-tail it out of there, when Brian came to life. He dropped his fork, turned toward me, and said, “What’s new, Justin? Is anything new?” He looked around the table. “I see Justin all the time, so probably there isn’t anything new since Wednesday.”

 

I was speechless. I thought about my alternatives. I could get up and leave, I could walk around the table and cold-cock Brian, or I could ignore him. Before I could make up my mind, Michael said, “I should have guessed that that was what this little charade is about.”

 

“Li’l ch-charade?” Brian has to be pretty high before he starts having difficulty speaking.

 

Michael stood up. “Get up,” he said to Brian. Brian blinked up at him. Michael made the up-up-up gesture with his hand, and Brian stood up, rocking a little. Michael grabbed his upper arm and guided him through the living room and up the stairs. He was gone for a short while and came back alone. “He’s asleep,” he said, matter-of-factly. 

 

“Passed out,” Ben clarified.

 

“Well, yeah,” Michael said. “Finish your dinner,” he said to Kevin, “and Ted will drive you home.” 

 

Ted nodded. Kevin had been tucking into the vegetarian lasagna and garlic bread, and he hadn’t had any wine, so he was considerably less drunk than Brian. He looked around. “I don’t understand,” he said.

 

Michael explained to both of us. “Justin down there,” I raised one hand, “has been Brian’s boyfriend for a couple of months….”

 

Kevin interrupted, “But Brian says he doesn’t….”

 

“Do boyfriends. Yes, we’ve all heard that, and that’s the problem. In his heart of hearts, Brian knows Justin is his boyfriend now, and since he doesn’t do boyfriends….”

 

I had an epiphany. “He decided to make that very clear to me.”

 

Heads nodded all around the table. Nobody was upset, nobody even seemed surprised…except me. I was surprised and not very happy. “That’s just crazy,” I said.

 

Ben said, “You could say that. You could also say that it’s a sign you mean more to him than any of his numerous fucks or the tricks that he’s hooked up with briefly in the past.”

 

Kevin looked unhappy. “You mean….”

 

“We mean that I’ll be taking you home after coffee and dessert, and Brian won’t be fucking you anymore,” Ted said. 

 

Kevin may have been upset, but he kept on eating. I was upset, too, but I hope I disguised it better than Kevin.

 

In the end, Ted gave me a ride home, too. Brian was still passed out in the Novotny-Bruckner spare bedroom when we left. 

 

What do I think of all this? I think that Brian chose the most publicly embarrassing way of giving me the brush-off that I’ve even heard of. We’ve come to the end of a very short road. 

     

 


	22. Chapter 22

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**10/13/12** **,** **10:10 AM**  I woke up in a strange bed this morning, and there was no one sleeping next to me.  Always a bad sign.  

It took me a minute to place where I was, and then my eyes began to focus on the hideous wallpaper.  Since I knew I wasn’t at Mel and Lindsay’s, this had to be Michael’s.  Yup, I was in Hunter’s old room.  

Christ, I thought, What am I doing here, and why does my mouth taste like I just licked the floor in the backroom of Babylon?   

I stumbled downstairs to find Mikey reading the paper.  He looked up and all I saw were those big brown puppy dog eyes peering at me over the top of the local section.  Problem is, this morning they looked like they belonged to a rabid pit bull.  “Well, Brian, what do you have to say for yourself?”    

_(He sounded just like Joanie.)_

 

 

“I think I wet the bed.” 

 

_(I figured it he was going to treat me like a two year old, I may as well act like one.)_

“You what!?”  

_(Oh, Mikey, you’re so easy.)_

 

 

“Not really, I just wanted to give you one more thing to bitch about.  Where’s Pa?  I may as well deal with both of you at once.”

“Ben,” he paused to emphasize the word, “went out for a run.  He’s not interested in trying to teach you proper social etiquette. I’m pretty sure he feels you’re a lost cause.”  

_(Oh, like that was supposed to hurt.)_

 

 

“But not yo-o-ou.”  I smiled to further irritate him and bent down to kiss his cheek.  He swatted me away, and I went into the kitchen. After pouring myself a cup a coffee, I returned and took a seat at the other end of the table before continuing. “So, let me have it.” 

“I let you have it last night.”  

_(Thank god it’s nothing but a blur.)_

 

 

“But I don’t remember what you said.  Fuck, I don’t remember what I said.  Why am I here anyway?” 

“Don’t be a smart ass, Brian.  This isn’t funny.  When are you going to stop treating people like they’re disposable?  Like nobody’s feelings matter but yours?”  

_(Fuck, I must not have complimented him on his latest culinary delight or said the wrong thing about his choice of china patterns.)_

 

 

“Oh, did I say something to ruin your little dinner party, Mikey?  Don’t worry; there’ll be another one next week.” 

“It’s not me, you selfish asshole.  It’s Justin.  What you did to him last night was really shitty.  One of the shittiest things I’ve seen you do, and believe me, I’ve seen plenty.  When are you going to learn that you don’t treat people like that, Brian?  Especially people who you care for.   People who you…dare I say it…might even love?” 

_(What?!  Here he goes again, making assumptions…stupid assumptions...about my personal life.  Fuck.  I’m sick of people doing this.)_  

“No, you may not say it, because I don’t, Michael.  I’m not like you and all of the other fucking queers around here who want to profess their love after a particularly attentive rim job.  Justin and I are friends who fuck.  Big deal.  We can fuck other people too, whenever we want to, and I think that’s just what I was doing.” 

“Oh, I see.  I think it would have been nice if you would have informed Justin of that little detail before you showed up, drunk, with Kevin.  What would you have done, Brian, if the situation had been reversed and he came with someone else?”  

_(That’s easy…)_

 

 

“I would have taken them both home and fucked them, Michael.  The more the merrier.” 

“Right.  Don’t bull-shit me.  I’ve seen how you are with him.  Any other alpha dog comes sniffing around Justin and you’re all over him marking your territory.” 

_(I am not!)_  

“We’re just friends, Michael.” 

“No.  You and Ted are just friends.  You and Emmett are just friends.  Christ, you and I are just friends.  There’s something more with Justin, and that’s the problem, isn’t it?  Grow up, Brian.  Get your ass out of here, and don’t come back until you apologize to him.”   

_(Gladly - the leaving and not coming back part, that is.)_

I finished my coffee in one gulp and set the cup down loudly.  “Okay, see you around.”  I said as I left him with his head, once again buried in the newspaper.  He’ll get over it, he always does.  But will I?

 

It’s not just Michael.  It’s all of them.  Just because I found someone whom I’m interested in fucking more than once, all of a sudden I’m supposed to be shopping for wedding rings.

Yesterday at work Cynthia e-mailed me a picture of a sweater she thinks would look good on “my boyfriend.”  When did he become my boyfriend and why would I be buying him clothes?  Then Ted comes in and asks if Justin is allergic to walnuts because he was bringing last night’s dessert, and he heard the little princess has allergies.  How the fuck should I know?  The only nuts we’ve discussed are mine, and he seems to do just fine after having them in his mouth. 

To top it off, I stopped by Woody’s on my way home for a drink and a quick game of pool and ran into one of my bartenders from Babylon.  Jess had the nerve to ask me to ask if he could start using my private room once in a while as a perk of the job.  I told him, “No, because then it wouldn’t be my _private_ room now, would it?”    

He said he thought I wouldn’t mind since I never use it anymore. “You know, now that you have Justin.”  

 

That did it.  Luckily some twink named Kevin was getting an early start on the evening.  I bought him a few drinks, and made sure Jess saw Justin didn’t have exclusive rights to me.  The bathroom stall at Woody’s may not be my private room at Babylon but it served the purpose.   After the boy put out so nicely, I figured the least I could do is feed him dinner.  So I dragged him along with me to Michael’s and now, because of that, I’m expected to walk downstairs and apologize to a man who proposed this set up in the first place.  A man who wanted to be fuck buddies and nothing more. 

I guess I’m going to have to go down there and talk to him if I am ever going to have any peace.  But if Justin Taylor thinks for one minute that our situation has somehow morphed into more than that original proposal, this is over.   

 


	23. Chapter 23

  
Author's notes:   


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**14 October 2012** **, Sunday,** **9:55 a.m.**

The on-going drama that is Brian Kinney went on yesterday.

 

Having had an early and sober night Friday, I was up before 7:00 a.m. yesterday. By the time Brian started pounding on my door, I was well into my latest piece. 

 

I hate to be interrupted almost as much as I hate scenes, and I could see a scene developing. “I’m coming, I’m coming. Hold your horses,” I bellowed, but the pounding didn’t stop. Brian probably couldn’t hear me over the racket he was making.

 

I jerked the door open, and he practically fell in. He looked considerably the worse for wear. His hair was standing up all over his head, his eyes were red-rimmed, and he looked tired. He had thrown on old jeans and an undershirt but skipped the shoes. He looked unfairly gorgeous. “I was afraid you wouldn’t let me in,” he said.

 

“So you figured that you’d make so much noise that either I let you in or the neighbors called the cops?”

 

“Mmm. Mikey was very pissed at me. Told me I needed to apologize to you.”

 

“So apologize and get out. I’m working.”

 

“You WASPs. Don’t you ever get mad and yell? Mikey yelled at me this morning, but not you, huh?”

 

“I told you, I’m working. I don’t have the energy or the inclination for a big scene. So, no. No yelling.”

 

He unstuck himself from my doorjamb and wandered toward the main room. “Yelling would make all this easier.” 

 

“Brian, get out. Leave. Now.”

 

“You know we’re just fuck buddies, don’t you?”

 

“What ever you say.”

 

 He continued, “And you know I don’t care how much you trick, how many guys suck your dick, how many guys you bring home.”

 

“Great, it’s good to know how much you don’t care. And I don’t care, either. What I care about is being embarrassed in front of our friends.”  I was trying to maintain my demeanor but I could hear my voice rising.

 

“Fuck, Justin. It’s not like we’re in a relationship or partners or some such shit!”  His voice was rising, too.  

 “Did I ever say we were?  Aside from that first night at Babylon, have I pursued this?  Am I the one asking you out on dates?  Knocking on your door?  Up until this point, I think this non-relationship of ours has been working out quite nicely, but bringing that kid to Michael and Ben’s….” Now I _was_ yelling.  Damn it, he was looking at the picture on my easel. A picture I call “Man Resting.” “Man Resting” is not in my usual semi-abstract style. It is representational and, even though the background is unfinished, it is already clearly recognizable as Brian Kinney.   

He looked at it for a long minute, his face blank. Then he turned and walked toward me purposefully. I stood my ground. He stopped when he was as close to me as he could get without touching me and looked down, his face still expressionless. With a jerk on my wrist, he pulled me over to the I-beam that runs up through my apartment, pushed me up against it, and dropped to his knees. I had on sweats, and he yanked them to the floor.  I gasped and curled my fingers in his soft hair.

 

He weighed my balls gently, then circled my penis with his hand, encouraging me to get hard. I didn’t need much encouragement. Just looking down at a head full of thick, wavy chestnut hair was almost enough to stiffen me.

 

I gasped again and squeezed my eyes shut as my dick was enveloped in wet warmness. He took me all the way into his mouth, my dick bumping up against his throat. His tongue massaged my shaft, then he pulled back until only the tip of my penis was in his mouth. Not good. I could feel the cold air where his mouth had been. “Bri-an,” I whined.

 

I swear he laughed around me and then he probed my slit with his tongue, probably tasting me. I whined again and pushed with my hips, trying to ram my dick in further. Ineffective. Even counter-productive. He firmed his lips around my cap and sucked. I moaned and squirmed against the beam. 

 

Brian put one hand on my hip and pushed me more firmly against the beam. His mouth slid down my shaft again, and his finger…his finger pushed through my sphincter and tapped my prostate. This time I yelled, “Brian!” The hand on my hip moved to circle my shaft just above my balls, and the finger moved again and again. I thrust into his mouth in the rhythm his finger set up, bumping his uvula. Somehow he managed not to gag. 

 

I could feel my balls drawing up, despite the constriction of my shaft, and with another yell, I came, pulling Brian’s hair hard. I slumped against the beam, and Brian drew away far enough to allow me to drop to my knees. I put my arms around his neck and laid my head on his chest, listening to my own heart thumping. Brian tipped my head up and kissed me, thrusting his come-covered tongue into my mouth. I shuddered and sucked. 

 

His erection was bumping against my hipbone. I looked down and started worrying the top button of his jeans. Brian stuck his hand in his pocket and came up with lube. By the time I had squeezed a dollop into the palm of my hand, Brian had his fly fully open and was already hanging on to the I-beam with one hand. I lubed his dick and began stroking it, judging my effectiveness by the changing expressions on his face. First he flushed, then he tipped his head back and his mouth fell open a little. He made repeated little, “ump,” sounds on almost every stroke, as though a hand job didn’t warrant a full-fledged moan. I increased the pressure and the rate, and now the “ump’s” were coming in a steady stream. He was wriggling and jerking hard against my hand, almost out of control. And then he was coming, all over both of us and some of the floor.

 

Jesus, now I was more than half hard. A short wait and a little stimulation, and he could have gotten me off again. Ad infinitum, apparently. Sexually, we are incredibly compatible. We don’t really need to practice what I suspect is tantric sex. All we need is propinquity and we can turn each other on, repeatedly.

   

Brian slumped against me, and it was my turn to prop him up. When he could finally speak, he surprised me by saying, “When you’re finished with the painting, I’m buying it.”

 

I shook my head No. Brian started to say something, but I held my hand up, stopping him. I said, “It’s not for sale.”

 

“You’re keeping it?”

 

I shook my head No. “Present,” I said.

 

“Okay. Well, get to work. Christmas is coming.”

 

So true.   

 

We helped each other up…damn, that floor is hard…and Brian’s a lot older than I am and was kneeling a lot longer…and he was out the door and gone, his Kinney apology complete. Guess the hand job was me accepting his apology…just don’t do it again, fuck buddy.


	24. Chapter 24

  
Author's notes:   


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**12/7/12** This has been one of the most seriously fucked up weeks in my entire life.  

It all started last Saturday.  Justin and I had spent the previous night together at his place and we slept in late.  Well, at least I did.  I woke up to him swearing and slamming drawers or cabinet doors or some such shit downstairs. As I descended them, he looked at me in frustration.  "Have you seen my blue folder anywhere?"

I had no idea what he was talking about and silently shook my head no.  He rolled his eyes and went back to tearing his house apart.  I figured if there was a good time to leave, now would be it.  Once he calmed down, he knew where to find me.  I was aware of the fact that he was supposed to be meeting with a colleague later that morning, and I assumed he needed what he was frantically looking for to facilitate that.  But I had no desire to get into a conversation with him about it or to join in the scavenger hunt.  In addition, I had plenty of my own work to deal with.  We were pitching two new accounts in the coming week and I still wasn’t satisfied with the presentations.  A quiet day alone in my loft would serve me nicely.  

As I stood outside my door, I could hear the muffled sounds of someone leaving a message on my answering machine.  It sounded like a woman's voice but I couldn't make it out from the outside, and by the time I was in, the red light was blinking.  

Pressing the button, I was immediately assaulted with Claire's shrill whine.  "Brian, where are you?  I've been calling since last night and I really need your help.  Please phone me as soon as possible, it's an emergency."

I dreaded making the call, but I could see from the number of messages she had already left that ignoring her would only result in a constant barrage from her throughout the day. 

 “What’s the emergency Claire?” I asked the minute she picked up the phone.

“Oh Brian, it’s John.  He’s in jail and I need money for the bail.  I’d ask mom but she’s down in Florida visiting Aunt Helen.  I didn’t know who else to call.”

“What did he do?”

“DUI.”  

_“Taking after Grandma, I see.  Where are you?”_

“At the jail.  I’ve been here most of the night.”

“How much, Claire?”

“Nine grand but I only need 10% to secure the bond.  I promise I'll pay you back as soon as mom gets home.  I just don't know what to do.”

“Well, first of all, calm down.  He obviously fucked up, let him sit there for awhile.  Call the bail bondsman back and find out when he can be there.  I have to take a shower and then I'll head out.” 

“Okay, hurry.”

To make a long, majorly annoying story short, I got to the Allegheny County jail shortly before noon and didn't get out of there until well after 4.   Just the way I wanted to spend my Saturday afternoon; witnessing a prime example of our legal system at its finest. 

In addition to dealing with a tearful Claire and an ungrateful, smart ass John, midway through the afternoon I received a phone call from Harvey Baker.  Harvey Baker, in San Francisco with Levi Straus.  THAT Harvey Baker. 

He had seen Kinnetik's print campaign for Resource Wear and was wondering if I would be interested in meeting with him for a new line they would be releasing in spring.  _Would I?!_

There I sat in the County jail waiting room, balancing my laptop on, well, my lap, with my cell phone to my ear.  Claire was sniveling on one side and Buster (no shit) from B & L Bail Bonds was waiting impatiently on the other, while I was attempting to make polite, stimulating conversation with a man who had the power to move my retirement date up several years.  We determined I would fly out Sunday and be at his office Monday morning by 10 sharp for a preliminary 'discussion.'  

If talks went well, I would be touring the plant and be in meetings for the better part of the week with various departments. 

So, with the family emergency put on temporary hold, I went home accompanied by a bitch of a headache to order my plane tickets and contact Ted and Cynthia.  The last minute business trip necessitated an early staff meeting Sunday morning in order to off-load my already packed Pittsburgh schedule.  After those arrangements were made, I still had several hours work ahead of me at Babylon.  As much as I loved that toy, the hours were killing me.  

I was hoping Justin would show for a little late night entertainment but he never materialized.  I guessed his meetings must have run late also.  Michael and Ben stopped in for a little while though, and I filled them in on my upcoming itinerary.  

Sunday morning came all too quickly, and after my breakfast meeting with the staff, I was on a plane for the West Coast.  I got to the hotel to find their internet connections down and - best of all - realized I had left my cell phone back in the Pitts.  Fuck!  If this was any indication of how the rest of the week was going to go, I might as well have packed up and gone home.  

Looking back on it, I probably should have checked out of the hotel and found one with working internet, but I figured I wouldn’t be spending all that much time there anyway, so I showered, found something to eat and grabbed a taxi to the Castro.  Even on a Sunday night, the quintessential gay Mecca offered me plenty of opportunity to unwind after the all too hectic weekend.  

Now I love San Francisco, what gay boy wouldn’t?  However, having been raised in the East, I’m not sure I could ever get used to the laid-back business attitude I always seem to encounter in California.  My meetings with Harvey and his staff went well enough, but what could have, and definitely would have been, accomplished in a day back in Pittsburgh took three in San Francisco.  In addition to a plant tour that included everything from the stimulating film, ‘The History of Denim,’ to the equally enthralling conversation with Beatrice over the proper number of teeth in a zipper, I was treated to a half day bus extravaganza around the city and an evening trip to Alcatraz.  

That’s fine and all, but was it really necessary in order to make a pitch to sell jeans?  Christ, I could just see the work piling up on my desk as I was peering into yet another empty prison cell.  Now, if I could have put my nephew in one of them, I wouldn’t be complaining.  

I left the City by the Bay with a handshake agreement that Kinnetik would have a presentation finalized by the second week in January.  I was secure in the knowledge that, while several other agencies were waiting in the wings, Harvey would not be entertaining any other offers until they saw what we put together first and gave us a yea or nay.  As lucrative as this could be, I wasn’t in a position to deal with a long term bidding war or wasted West Coast business trips.  

I got back home yesterday and went straight to the office, worked till well past midnight and took the luxury of sleeping in this morning until 8.  The good news?  I found my cell phone.  The battery was dead but it’s here, charging as I type.  I don’t even want to think of how many messages I have accumulated on that or on my home line.  I can see the blinking light out of the corner of my eye right now, but I am choosing to ignore it just in case Claire has another emergency.  I can’t deal with any more of her shit until I’ve had some serious ass time with my downstairs neighbor. 

I knocked on his door last night when I finally made it home from the office but he must have either been out or fast asleep.  No worries, I’ll see him tonight at Michael’s.  Dinners over there have become a standard Friday night routine and so has he.  I still manage to get plenty of variety during the week, but there’s something very nice about waking up on a Saturday morning wrapped around someone who doesn’t have to be asked to leave.  It’s a good set-up.  We flow freely between each other’s places but still maintain our own, separate lives.  It probably wouldn’t work for many people but as long as Justin isn’t complaining, neither am I.  


	25. Chapter 25

  
Author's notes:   


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**8 December 2012** **, Saturday,** **10:05 a.m.**   

O.K., I’m annoyed. I’m officially, seriously annoyed. At who, you ask? Who but Brian Asshole Kinney!

 

I know it’s been a while since Brian’s made an appearance in these pages, but that’s just because everything has been going smoothly. An evening at Woody’s here, a night at Babylon there, a little sucking there, some fucking here: nothing much to report 

 

That changed last week. 

 

Let me begin by setting the stage. As I wrote last month, I flew out to Chicago a couple of weeks ago to work on a paper I’m writing in tandem with my former colleague, Dennis O’Donnell. Our collaboration was going O.K., but the AEA journal submission date was coming up soon, so we decided it was time to get together in the same room and wrap up all the loose ends. Karen Harmer and I have formed an alliance here – she’s the only female Econ faculty member and I’m the only gay Econ faculty member – she agreed to cover my classes for the two days I’d be away. I flew to Chicago on 1 November, a Thursday. This series of events ensued:

 

1.) I called Wednesday morning and reminded Brian that I was going away the next day. O.K., so I had an agenda in mind when I called: I thought a farewell fuck would be nice. Brian cooperated.

 

2.) I called him Thursday night to tell him how my day went. Of course, I had an agenda that time, too. We had satisfactory phone sex, thank you very much.

 

3.) I got together with Rob on Friday night and stayed over. Saved on the hotel and did not call Brian. 

 

4.) I flew back early on Saturday and called him when I got home. I thought some “Welcome back, Justin” sex was a good idea and so, apparently, did Brian.

 

So-o-o, last Sunday I went into my office and spent a productive day working on my book (not to be confused with the AEA paper). Called Brian’s cell as I left the campus; no answer, left a message. Tried the loft; no answer, left a message. Shrugged, stopped and picked up a sandwich, went home, ate said sandwich and watched two movies. Went to bed…alone.

 

Monday: usual workday routine. Called Brian’s cell as I left the campus, no answer, left a message.. Tried the loft, no answer, left a message. Shrugged, stopped and picked up some salad, went home, popped a frozen pizza in the oven, had dinner, put in a couple of hours on my painting. Went to bed…alone.

 

Get the picture?

 

Tuesday: same story, different day, only by now I was getting concerned. I altered my route home and, sure enough, Michael was still in the store. He had his Closed sign up, but I could see him moving around inside. I knocked, and he opened the door for me. We did the usual greetings – “Hi,” “How are you?” “What’s new?” “Thanks for letting me in.” – and then I said, “Have you heard from Brian?”

 

“Sure.” Michael had gone back to straightening the racks, putting the comics back in their proper slots. 

 

“Well, where is he?”

 

“You know…he went to San Francisco..”

 

NO, I didn’t know. Brian never happened to mention that little detail.

 

“Left Sunday afternoon,” he continued.

 

“And he’s coming back…when?”

 

“Thursday noon-ish.” He looked at me sharply. “You didn’t know, did you? He didn’t tell you.” His smile was close to gleeful.

 

I drew myself up to my full 5’ 6” and said, “We’re just fuck buddies. He doesn’t need to tell me where he’s going….”

 

“Or who he’s doing?” Now Michael sounded sympathetic. That annoyed me more than the gleeful.

 

“Right. Listen, I’ll see you guys Friday night, O.K. What can I bring?”

 

“You want to bring dessert? Try to find something lo-cal that isn’t angel food cake. I’m about angel-food-caked out.”

 

And I made my exit quickly.

 

So I called Brian before my trip, after my trip, and during my trip. He saw me the day before he left and didn’t even bother to tell me where he was going. Never called, never returned my messages. The unreturned messages: that was what hurt.  I had a vivid picture of Brian at some raunchy bar in the Castro hearing his phone ring, picking it up, looking at the Caller I.D., smiling, and letting my call go to Voice Mail. “Just a little reminder that we’re only fuck buddies, Justin.”

 

Do I need to say that I didn’t call Brian again?

 

On Friday night I bought rich delicious pound cake for all the normal people and low fat, tasteless vanilla ice cream for Brian A. Kinney. As soon as I walked through the door, Michael said, “Brian called. He’s not going to be able to make it tonight – he has a lot of catching up to do at the office – but he’ll see you at Woody’s.”

 

So Ben, Michael, Ted, Blake, Emmett, and I ate the pound cake with the vanilla ice cream on top. Then I went to Woody’s. I was spoiling for a fight, and I wasn’t sure how long I could stay angry. Never put off until tomorrow what you can do tonight. 

 

Was this a wise decision? Probably not, considering the outcome.

 

As soon as I walked into Woody’s, I looked at, first, the bar – no Brian – and then the pool table. He was cueing up, playing himself, trawling for a sucker, no doubt. He was still in his suit, so he had indeed come right from the office. I walked over and said, “Welcome home, asshole.”

 

“Hi to you, too,” he said and dropped a light kiss on my lips.

 

I resisted the urge to wipe it off. That would have been a little too juvenile. “Thanks for letting me know you were going to the Coast, thanks for not calling me once while you were gone and special thanks for not returning my phone messages. That was a masterful touch. That put me in my place, didn’t it? _fuck buddy_.”

 

Brian had stopped shooting to listen to my tirade, an intense look on his face. He didn’t look angry, he didn’t look amused, he didn’t look annoyed. It was hard to tell exactly what that expression meant. 

 

“Justin, you are hot when you’re pissy. Very, very hot when you’re very, very pissy,” and he stuck his hand down the front of my jeans and towed me toward the bathroom. Jesus, now I recognized his expression: lust. Lust and Justin in Woody’s bathroom together with Brian. This was going to end badly, I could see. 

 

It did. He hauled me into a stall, then surprised me with a lovely, soft kiss that deepened very, very slowly. His hands were busy while we kissed, unbuttoning and unzipping. He broke the kiss with a sigh and turned me to face the side of the stall. I heard him unbuttoning and unzipping himself – he was about to drop his Versace pants on the floor of Woody’s bathroom. “Fuck, Brian, your pants will be filthy.”

 

“Job security for the dry cleaners,” he said and pressed two lubed fingers into my ass. 

 

That kiss undid me, and I let him have his way with me. What followed was fast and hard and noisy, given the age and state of repair of the stalls at Woody’s. When it was over, I followed him out and went straight to the bar. I needed a drink or four. Brian took me home straight from Woody’s and poured me into bed. I don’t know if he went out again, and I don’t care.

 

Notice that, in the course of our brief conversation, Brian did not apologize, he did not make any excuses for not returning my calls, he didn’t argue with my conclusion. All it took for me to forgive him was one long, soft, gentle kiss. I am way too easy.


	26. Chapter 26

  
Author's notes:   


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**27 December 2012, Thursday, 1:14 p.m.**

I have to say, my first Christmas back in the Pitts was very successful…hectic but fun. Hectic enough that I haven’t had the time to write anything here, but I just have to take a moment now to write up the Brian-Justin part of the holiday. 

Yes, Virginia, there was a Brian-Justin Christmas even though, according to Mikey, Brian doesn’t do Christmas. 

Ben and Michael celebrate Christmas in a big way…is anybody surprised?  Brian and I got there about 8:30 on Christmas Eve, me lugging his portrait, nicely wrapped. Of course, he knew exactly what it was – I was just following orders, again. That man has the strangest effect on me. Why is it that I want so much to please him? Even when he’s driving me crazy, as he does frequently, I find myself excusing his quirks. And at Christmas? Who can hold a grudge at Christmas?  

Anyway, when it came time to open presents, he was surprised. He’d only seen his portrait partially finished and unframed. He seemed very pleased with the finished product. I made him beautiful enough to get a passing grade.

Knowing that Brian is Christmas-phobic, I didn’t expect anything from him. Besides, who gives fuck buddies presents?Brian Kinney, it turns out. And a very Kinneyesque present it was: a slip of paper from his organizer, folded in half, with a name and telephone number written on it. 

I looked a question and he explained, “That’s the Deputy Mayor. He’s expecting a call from you, to discuss doing some statistical analysis for the Department of Real Estate Taxation.”    

That’s Brian all over. How like him to give me something that money literally can’t buy!  I’m salivating over the possibilities – the assignment screams Paper Topic. We academics eat paper topics up with a spoon. 

My reaction to this gift was just what you would expect of an Associate Professor of Economics: I yelled, threw myself at him, and kissed him hard. Suave and debonair, that’s me. As for Brian, he hasn’t stopped smirking yet.   

11 January 2013, Friday, 6:30 p.m. 

I think I have time for a quick note before Brian picks me up for Friday night dinner at the Novotny-Bruckner’s.

  
Robert’s plane is due to arrive at 11:23 tonight, and I’m going out to the airport to pick him up. I am really looking forward to spending a fun weekend with him. Neither of us have anything we have do except relax and enjoy each other’s company.  

God, it will be so good to see him. It’s been more than two months since I combined business and pleasure on that October trip to Chicago.  I knew he couldn’t come to Pittsburgh much before the middle of January. August through New Year’s Eve is always Rob’s busy season, when it seems that every queen in Chicago needs something – or more than one something – cut down to there, slit up to here, covered with sequins, and clinging to every curve. He does do some couture for Valentine’s Day, mostly lingerie, but Valentine’s Day can’t compete with the Christmas/New Year’s holidays.

  
I was going to rent a car for the weekend but Brian said, No, I could borrow the Jaguar to pick up and drop off Robert. So I’ll go with Brian to Babylon after dinner and hang out until it’s time to leave for the airport.   
  
I can hardly wait until Rob sees the car. He’ll have his first orgasm in the parking lot.

**12 January 2013, Saturday, 8:30 a.m.**  
  
Rob’s still asleep, so I thought I’d write up as much as I can of last night before he gets up. We had quite a night.  
  
After we got in the car – following a nice, long kiss in the short-term parking lot – no way Robert’s going to give me more than a quick hug anywhere as public as an airport concourse – I said, “I’ll drop you off at the apartment, but I have to take the monster back to Brian. Babylon’s not that far, and there are always taxis in the vicinity: the round trip will take me fifteen minutes, max. Then….” and I smiled.  
  
“Wrong. We drop off my bag, and I go with you to Babylon. I have to meet this Brian Kinney you talk about all the time.”  
  
I had mixed feelings about that. “You’ll like him,” I said. “And he’ll like you.”  
  
When we got home, I dropped Robert’s overnight case on the floor and pulled him to me, one hand on his waist, the other cupping the back of his head. _So it’s 1:00 a.m., not 12:30, when I drop off the Jag. Will Brian care? No._  
  
Robert raised his hand and placed it in the middle of my chest, stopping me. “Justin, I have something I have to tell you.”  
  
 _Uh-oh._  
  
”Jameel Graines moved in with me two weeks ago.”  
  
I tried to do the Brian Kinney stone-face thing. I need more practice.  
  
“I’m still working out of your bedroom.”  
  
 _Bigger uh-oh._ I looked a question.  
  
“I came out to my family.”  
  
Ouch. That hurt. Robert could tell them he was fucking a brother but not that he was making it with a white boy…for three years.  
  
I didn’t ask him how they took it. I said, “C’mon, let’s take the car back.”  
  
We didn’t say much on the way over. The bouncer waved us on in, and then we came to a stop, overwhelmed by the music, the lights, the movement. I looked up, and there was Brian, looking down from his usual perch. I smiled, and he raised one hand. I think he was watching for me.  
  
Robert was still looking around, sizing up the place…and the guys. I put my hand on his arm, and he gave me two thumbs up. I jerked my head toward the stairs, and he followed me as I snaked my way across the dance floor and up to the catwalk.   
  
Brian turned as we approached, and I knew what he was seeing. Robert and I make a striking couple. We are almost exactly the same height, with similar builds. Robert is dark, with skin so richly brown and velvety that it attracts your hand like magnets draw steel. In contrast to his skin and black, curly hair (which he keeps as short as he can without shaving it), some ancestor endowed him with a narrow, crooked, aristocratic nose and light, hazel eyes. Contrast that with my fair skin, blond hair, and blue eyes, and two people couldn’t look more different. It’s a very effective combination, let me tell you. Offers to make up a threesome are not uncommon.  
  
I watched Robert look Brian over: the long, lean body; the sensual mouth; the thick, chestnut hair; the wary, critical eyes. Then Brian smiled at me, his expression softening, and I could see Robert respond. Brian held out his hand, and I dug the keys out of my pocket. Brian leaned toward me, his mouth close to my ear, and said, “Wait here.” As he moved away, Robert gave me another two-thumbs up.  
  
We both leaned our elbows on the railing and watched the mating games going on below until Brian returned. He had his coat on. “C’mon,” he said.  
  
Robert and I looked at each other, and I shrugged. We followed Brian out.  
  
“You haven’t introduced us,” Brian said as soon as we were outside.  
  
I ignored that. “How are you planning on getting us home?”  
  
Brian smirked and tossed an unfamiliar set of keys into the air and caught them. “Emmett was happy to take the Jag home.”  
  
“I’m sure. And we are going…where?” Robert and I were following Brian, sucked into his wake.   
  
“Back to the loft,” he said and clicked the SUV open. He waved Robert into the front seat, and I climbed into the back. As soon as Brian got into the driver’s seat, I said, “Suppose Robert and I don’t want to go back to the loft?”  
  
“We can go back to your place instead.”  
  
“I mean, suppose we wanted to stay at Babylon or go out for something to eat or….”  
  
“I’m sure Robert is tired from his trip and ready for bed, aren’t you, Robert?”  
  
Robert said, “Of course,” simultaneously with my, “Domineering, as usual, Brian,” but this childish exchange helped me reestablish my equilibrium after Robert’s surprise.  
  
I’m going to wind this up for now, but I’ll get back to it, probably tomorrow. Robert is up, he’s had his shower, and now he’s rustling around the kitchen. So…more later. I really need to get what happened at the loft down on paper and think about it.  
  
 **Yes, you do. And I think my insights into last night will be valuable.**  
  
You always think that, Robert. Pull up a chair and we’ll do one of our dual entries. Just nudge me aside when you have something to add.  
  
When we got to the loft, you were properly awed. Brian was already stripping while you oh’d and ah’d. Then, when you got an eyeful of that body, you oh’d and ah’d some more.   
  
**The man _is_ fine.**   
  
By the time we got our shirts off, Brian was naked. Both of us were still struggling with our pants when he pulled me close and tucked me under one arm. Then he put his knuckle under your chin and kissed you. I watched you guys as your kiss changed from gentle and exploratory to open-mouthed and intense. He ran his hand down your back and pulled you against him. You were moaning and tugging at your pants, trying to get them off. I saw Brian push his hand down the back of your pants and over your ass, and your whole body went stiff. I thought about where his hand was and forgot to breathe. When I remembered, I sucked in a deep breath with a gasp.  
  
The sound I made caught Brian’s attention, and he pulled me even closer. As his mouth covered mine, I ran my hand down his belly and wrapped it around his dick…his hot, hard, and throbbing dick. He made a strangled sound and deepened the kiss, filling my mouth with his tongue. When he broke the kiss, I looked at you. You had gotten naked, finally, and your eyes were huge and dilated. I wanted to touch your boner, but Brian knocked my hand down. “Pants first,” he growled.   
  
Brian let go long enough for me to get my boots, socks, and pants off, then he grabbed me by the back of the neck and hustled me toward the bed, dragging you along after him by your wrist.   
  
**Not that I wasn’t willing, but his legs are a lot longer than yours or mine.**   
  
I wanted to touch you so badly, Robert. We’d been together for more than an hour – after two months apart – and all I’d had was that one kiss in the parking lot. As soon as we followed Brian onto the bed, I started running my hands all over you, down your flanks, up the insides of your thighs, and over your belly, ending up by fluttering my fingers up and down your dick, the way you like it. You were so hard.   
  
**Brian was lying next to me, leaning on his elbow, watching us and smiling, and if you think I was hard, you should have checked him out.**  
  
Yeah, you and I’ve always been a turn-on together. When I started sucking on your earlobe and nibbling your neck, you rolled me over on my back and kissed me. I didn’t think I could get any hotter, but your mouth is amazing, as you very well know.   
  
**Did you realize that while I was kissing you, Brian’s hand was stroking my back and ass and that he ran his finger down my ass crack to my hole?**   
  
I’m not surprised.   
  
**Then, while we were still kissing, I felt, with a little shock,** **one of Brian’s fingers push into my hole.**  
  
That must have been about the time I grabbed the lube and a condom from its spot next to the bed. Before I could lube you up, though, Brian took it away from me.   
  
**That’s the short version of what happened. Here’s the whole story. When we stopped kissing, I watched you reach for the lube, and then Brian said, “Justin.”  
  
You didn’t seem to hear him, I think because you were so turned on. You flipped the cap on the lube, and Brian said your name again, this time with a snap in his voice. You sat up straight with a shocked look on your face. Brian said, with a gentler tone, “The lube, Justin,” and you handed it to him. He rolled me onto my stomach and lubed me.   
  
I squirmed around so that I could see what was happening, and I saw him hold out his hand to you. You gave him the condom, and then I heard him roll it on. He pulled me up to my knees. I looked at you and said, “Justin.” You shook your head as though you were trying to figure out what was going on. I hauled you close, kissed you, and said, “ Roll over. Let me fuck you.” You nodded, looking less dazed, and curled yourself under me. **  
  
I _wanted_ you to fuck me. You know I like to top, but I’m not stubborn about it…especially when I’m so turned on that all I can think about is fucking. I was at that point.. **Then Brian was replacing his fingers in my ass with his dick, his fingers digging into my hips, holding me in place. I gritted my teeth and concentrated on taking him in. Once in, he paused as I shuddered around him. He stayed still, barely moving, while I stretched and entered you. You braced your arms against the head of the bed as Brian moved in me, and I fucked you. Despite everything going on behind you, you managed to push back against me until I was in up to the hilt. For a man who doesn’t bottom much, you are damn good, Justin.**  
  
I’ve been getting a lot of practice. But it’s different with you, Rob. You know me so well. You know exactly what I want and when I want it. I know you started to jerk me off, but Brian stopped you, didn’t he?  
  
 **I knew by the way you were moaning and squirming that you wanted to come, but as soon as I touched you, Brian grabbed my hand and held it. I needed to brace myself with my other hand; there was nothing I could do.**  
  
I wanted…needed…you to jerk me off so badly. Then when you started to come, and you hadn’t touched me, I felt like screaming. **You did scream. Your yell triggered Brian’s orgasm, and he was thrusting into  me while you twisted under me and cursed us both.**  
  
Huh. I couldn’t guess that Brian had other plans for my dick.   
  
**And my ass. I was lying there, panting, and Brian said, “Roll over,” and gave me a push on the shoulder.**  
  
I had collapsed too, lying on my stomach. I knew that for some reason Brian didn’t want me to touch myself, but all I could think about was my throbbing, pulsing cock. I started rocking back and forth, rubbing against the bed. Then Brian said, “Justin. Don’t waste that boner on the sheets,” and I realized he wanted me to fuck you. It must have been a pretty rough fuck, too. I was so horny; I just wanted to get your heels on my shoulders and my dick up your ass as quickly as possible.  
  
 **Hey, I’m not complaining. You were so hot…and you should have seen Brian’s face while you were pounding into me! He was leaning over you, nipping your shoulder, sucking on your neck.**  And putting his fingers up my ass when he decided it was time for me to come. He bumped my sweet spot a couple of times, and that was it. I thought I was going to black out, I came so hard.   
  
**Tell me about it. It was my ass taking a beating. Then, afterwards, when I saw that Brian was hard again, I couldn’t believe it.**  Not again, Robert.  Still.  It’s just one of his many talents **How the hell old is he anyway?**  It’s supposed to be a big mystery, but his best friend can’t keep a secret. Brian was 38 last May.  
  
 **He’s doing just fine. There aren’t many guys who’d have been ready to be sucked off so soon. Though it did take you a while.**  
  
Yeah, like you would know how long. You rolled over and fell asleep as soon as I pulled out.  
  
 **So what’s with you and Brian? Are you boyfriends?**  
  
I told you, the last time we talked on the phone, Brian doesn’t do boyfriends.  
  
 **Okay, let me get this straight. You both go to this best friend’s house for dinner every Friday, Brian lends you his extremely hot Jaguar any time you need a car, you fuck how many times a week…?**  
  
A couple of times.  
  
 **How many?**  
  
Three, maybe four times. More if you count the mornings, too.  
  
 **So you spend the night after you fuck?**  
  
Sometimes we sleep here.  
  
 **But coming back to your apartment like we did is unusual?**  
  
Yeah, I guess.  
  
 **Last night, before you picked me up, you were at Babylon with Brian, right? How often does that happen?**  
  
Usually once a week, mostly just Friday nights, but sometimes Friday and Saturday.  
  
 **And how often to you go out without him?**  
  
You know me, Robert. I’ve always got stuff that I need to work on: art projects, papers to grade, lectures to work up. I don’t have time to go out more than once or twice a week.  
  
 **So you drive Brian’s car, you only go out with Brian, you only fuck Brian, you sleep with him more nights than you sleep alone…sounds like a boyfriend to me. You may not be his boyfriend, but he seems to be yours.**  
  
So? So what?  
  
 **So…nothing. So he’s your boyfriend. Big deal. But, Justin, you were my boyfriend, and you didn’t act with me like you do with Brian. He says, “Jump!” and you ask, “How high?”**  
  
That’s ridiculous.  
  
 **Un-huh. Think about last night. You wanted to fuck me, but one word from Brian stopped you cold. I couldn’t believe the look on your face. You looked like he’d slapped you. And you stopped. What’s with that? And what’s with not being allowed to touch yourself afterwards? Have you had a personality transplant? You’ve always been the dominant guy, no matter who we fucked. I feel funny saying this, but you’re almost submissive around Brian.**  
  
I think you’re making a big deal out of one little incident, Robert.  
  
 **Okay, I take what I said back. You _were_ submissive, no maybe about it. And that’s not like you, Justin. That’s O.K., if submissive makes you happy. I just don’t believe it does or that it will keep on making you happy. I’m worried. You’re going to get all involved and then you’ll be unhappy because this relationship is unnatural for you. I see a train wreck coming, and I don’t want you getting hurt.**  
  
You know I’m pretty tough. You don’t have to worry about me. I can take care of myself.  
  
 **Okay. But will you just think about the whole situation with Brian? Please?**  
  
Are we done here? Want to see some of scenic Pittsburgh this afternoon? I almost hate to say this, but Brian says he doesn’t need the car until 9:00 or 10:00 tonight, so we could drive into the country after I show you my office at school. All we have to do is take back Emmett’s SUV for Brian.  
  
 **Let’s go**. 


	27. Chapter 27

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**1/12/13**  Justin is the best pet.  

 Not only was he housebroken when I got him, he also plays well with others, and yesterday, in exchange for the use of my Jag, he brought his very favorite toy all the way from Chicago to share with me.   Now who else can say that about man's best friend? 

I was standing in my spot on the catwalk when they arrived looking like a living, breathing, Benetton ad.  Their colors contrasted with and complemented each other beautifully.  By the time they made it up the stairs my dick was hard in anticipation of what the night would bring. 

I have no idea why Justin's old flame, Robert, is here.  Probably for some drag queen trade show or something but I don't really care, just as long as I reap the benefits.  The man is hot and I knew, upon first glance, that I wanted to see more.  However, first I needed to make some transportation changes.   

Now there are many benefits to owning a red Jaguar but its ability to transport multiple passengers is not one of them.  However, its esthetic appeal never leaves me at a loss for individuals willing to switch vehicles.  Emmett, who at the moment was lip-locked with some new guy on the dance floor, owned a nice roomy SUV.  That would accommodate the three of us nicely.  

Leaving the boys for a moment, I made my way down the stairs and jingled my keys at Emmett’s ear.  He opened one eye, held out one hand to catch my keys and fished in his pocket with his other to retrieve his.    

Exchange made, I let Jared, behind the bar, know I was leaving, and grabbed my coat.  The man was here for a limited period of time and I wasn't going to waste a minute of it dancing.  

Robert sat up front while Justin plunked himself in the back and tried to appear annoyed that we were going to my place to fuck.  The smug, contented look I saw in my rearview mirror however, gave him away.  He was as excited to show me off as I was at the thought of performing for his guest.    

Positioning myself between the two of them on the elevator, I ran a hand up under each of their shirts.  I rubbed along their delicate, muscled backs and they both squirmed in unison.  This was going to be fun.  

 

It's no secret that I love variety and while I don't do old or fat, my repertoire of men has pretty much spanned the globe to include every other shape, size and color.  As I have often told Michael, Justin's body composition is my ideal; it is the anonymous figure that has brought on countless, masturbatory climaxes over the years. Now, here I was with two of them in starkly contrasting hues.  I was on sensory overload and was stripping before Justin had my loft door secured. 

The boys, however, were taking a little longer.  Justin had his shirt off and was fumbling with his pants when the urge to touch him overtook me. Still standing in the entryway, I pulled him against me, and then reached out to kiss Robert.  I had to make our guest feel welcome, after all.  

As we kissed, I shoved my hand down the back of his jeans and searched for a way in.  When I found it, his entire body tensed and Justin let out a noise confirming he was enjoying the show.  

Once everyone was sufficiently naked we made our way to the bedroom.  I could feel the electricity being generated between those two.  Absence was apparently having an appreciable effect on more body parts than just the heart.  I couldn’t help but notice that both of them were literally dripping in anticipation.

We reached the bed and their hands were all over each other.  I watched them kiss and let my hands do a little navigating of their own on Robert’s ass.  I would have been content to let this foreplay go on for a while, but the ever antsy Justin was already reaching for the lube.  

"Justin..."  I called to him but he was too worked up to hear me.  It took a second, "Justin,” to get him to sit up and take notice.  I held my hand out, “The lube.”  

Now, I have to admit, I am, on occasion, turning some control over to this man but it has been carefully parceled out in very small increments for a couple of reasons.  First of all, I know it has been said by my so called friends, that I am somewhat of a control freak.  If being assured that the man who has his dick up your ass knows what the hell he is doing is considered freakish behavior, I stand justifiably accused.  To me, it’s just healthy, common sense.  

Secondly, every time I give him an inch (no pun intended), he is just so damn grateful that I would be a fool to rush this process.  As far as last night goes, he would have been insane if he thought I was going to let him direct that production.  It takes a bit of choreography to make sex with odd numbers equitable and I think it was fair to assume I had far more experience in this area than the two of them put together.

Speaking of putting the two of them together, I pulled Robert up on his knees and he did the same to Justin.  This would work, I thought, just as long as we didn’t let things get too out of hand, or rather ‘in hand’ for Mr. Taylor.  Justin braced himself against the wall as I directed the speed and intensity of our dual fuck.  Once the three of us got a nice rhythm going it didn’t take long for Robert, who was getting it both ways, to come.  

I was almost there too, but stopped before I reached the critical point.  That, I was saving for Justin.

It became obvious I was going to have to work quickly when I had to stop the puppy from humping the sheets.  Justin was simply not going to last.  He needed to fuck something fast and it wasn’t going to be me.  

Thankfully, Robert was more than willing to oblige. After we removed the condoms, he lay on his back and Justin was on top of him instantly.  God, it was hot.  I held him from behind as he pounded into Robert.  The guy was so horny I don’t even think he comprehended the things I was whispering in his ear.  That is probably for the best though, because I think I made some suggestions that I’m not ready to follow through with.  

By the time he came, I was aching to do the same.   When Justin pulled out and I was still holding him, one arm wasaround his waist,the other up over his shoulder and down his chest.  I pulled him back against me so Robert could untangle himself and roll over. Kissing up Justin’s neck, I sucked his earlobe and asked, “Are you ready to take care of me now?”

 He chuckled as he removed and tied off the condom.  “Oh sure, NOW you want me to fuck you.”

“Mmm, not quite,” I replied, “but I can think of a better use for that mouth of yours.”  I rolled onto my back and pulled him with me.  We kissed and his hand trailed down to my dick.  Justin stroked me, pulled his lips away from mine and asked, “So, what is it you want me to do with this mouth of mine, Mr. Kinney?”  

Placing my hand on his shoulder, I pushed him in the direction where it would do me the most good and turned to look at Robert.  But his eyes weren’t on me.  Instead, they were following Justin as he snaked his way down my body.  Interestingly, Robert had, what I can best describe as a bewildered look on his face.   

When Justin’s tongue reached my slit and licked down my shaft, I sucked in a breath and continued to watch Robert.  That’s when he shook his head ever so slightly (in disapproval?) and turned away from us.  For an instant I wondered what was going on.  There is a history here that I do not share and his action led me to believe there is some unfinished business between the two of them that I’m not sure I want to know about. 

The thought was fleeting though **,** once my cock was fully encased in Justin’s mouth.  He pulled me in completely and then, ever…so…slowly…retreated.  With one hand rubbing my balls, he snaked the other under me to tease my asshole.  He probed me once…twice…then yet again as he sped up the movement with his mouth and I was gone.   I pulled my legs up and squeezed his body as I came and he giggled.  The vibrations that little action produced sent an intensely pleasurable sensation along my dick and up my body.  I’ll have to remember to thank him for that.  

Relieved, I looked down to see him licking his lips and smiling up at me.  He crawled back up my body and we kissed.  I held him there while my breathing and heartbeat regulated.  

“Fuck, you’re good at that,” I told him and he continued to beam.  He slid off of me and settled himself between Robert and me, and the three of us dozed for an hour or two.  

No one slept well, however, and eventually I woke to Justin gathering their clothes.  Sleepily, I looked up at him and asked the obvious question, “You leaving?”  

“Yeah,” he sat down on the edge of the bed and tangled his hand in my hair.  He whispered while Robert used the bathroom.  “I’d prefer to avoid any awkwardness in the morning.  Can I use the car again?”

“Sure,” I responded, "but you’ll have to get it back from Emmett.  His keys are on the counter.  I just need the Jag to get back to Babylon later tonight…have fun.”

“Thanks,” he smiled and bent down to kiss me as Robert entered the room.  

“Ready?” Robert asked.  

“Yup,” Justin replied tossing him his jeans.  

Lying on my stomach, my head was buried back into my pillow, but I felt Justin stand and pat my shoulder.  “Later,” he said.  And with that they were gone.    

  



	28. Chapter 28

  
Author's notes:   


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**13 January 2013** **, Sunday,** **11:30 a.m.**  

My God, I can’t believe it’s only 11:30 in the morning. I feel like I’ve put in a full day already.

 

Robert and I were up around 5:30 this morning, though not out of bed. We had to get in a farewell fuck before I took him to the airport. I know that this time it really was a farewell fuck. He flew out here to tell me about Jameel in person because their relationship means that Robert-and-Justin are truly history now. Oh, I’ll give him a call whenever I’m in Chicago, and maybe the three of us will get together for dinner, but there won’t be any more fucking and falling asleep curled up together. 

 

I thought that I’d dealt with leaving Robert before I left Chicago. Maybe I had. Robert’s little announcement showed me that I hadn’t dealt with Robert leaving me, however. I was rocked. I guess that, without really thinking about it, I figured that if things got too fucked up here, I could always run to Robert for comfort and support. Not now, not anymore.

 

Now I have to think about Robert’s potential train wreck: Brian-and-Justin. Let me try and attack the topic in an organized manner. That’s what we economists do, isn’t it? And, damn, why am I having so much trouble doing just that? I think about Brian and my mind is all over the place: X is good and Y is bad, but X has bad elements, and some parts of Y are great. 

 

All right. This is what’s going to happen. First, I’m going to list everything great about being with Brian and then all the minuses and perhaps that will organize my thoughts.

 

Pro: 

 

1\. Convenience. Brian is right here, and he’s always interested. I can’t remember one single time when I wanted some action, and he turned me down. Sometimes that meant a three-way, but if I was willing – and I always have been – he was always ready to share. (Such generosity!)

 

2\. Great sex. He’s a perceptive, inventive lover. He knows without asking when I want our sex to be slow and tender and when I want it hard and fast, when I want to be sucked and when I want to be fucked, when I want something reassuring and when I’m ready for the outrageous. I think he’d agree that we are extra-good together. If we were actors on the screen, I’d say we have good chemistry.

 

3\. I like him outside of bed. He’s intelligent, knowledgeable, and complex. Trying to understand him and to follow his mental processes is an intellectual challenge. 

 

4\. He’s generous, both with his belongings – witness the Jaguar – and with his time. Take my Christmas present, for example. When I contacted Mr. Deputy Mayor Derek Jackman, he was expecting my call and predisposed to approve of me. Brian’s opinion carries a lot of weight in this town, it seems. In a quiet, self-disparaging way, he’s a mover and shaker, although I’m sure he’d deny it vehemently.

 

Con:

 

1\. Convenience. As long as I have Brian one flight up, I’ll never get off my lazy ass and go looking for someone I can get serious with.

 

2\. Sex. I don’t know what to think about Robert’s insight…that I’m submissive with Brian. Does it matter? If I’m having great sex, do I care if I’m always the one with the dick up his ass? I can be a bossy bottom when I feel like it, and I think Brian gets a kick out of it occasionally. (See, that’s part of the problem. I’m more worried about Brian’s reaction than I am about what I want.) Suppose I do top Brian every once in a while: does that make us more equal? Are we, in fact, unequal? Brian would say No, and I am inclined to agree with him. So what am I worried about? 

 

3\. Brian’s attitude. Brian famously doesn’t do boyfriends. (Boy, have I heard that often enough! Usually like this, “How long have you been with Brian? That’s amazing. Brian doesn’t do boyfriends.”) Robert’s right: I act like Brian’s my boyfriend, but if you asked him, I’m sure he’d say I’m just a fuck buddy. More than that, he has to make our fuck buddy status clear to me every once in a while. There was that ridiculous dinner at Michael’s and there was the time he went to San Francisco.

 

4\. My attitude: When it comes to Brian Kinney, I have a horrible attitude problem. Horrible for me, anyway. It doesn’t seem to affect him. I’m starting to care for him. Hell, I care more for him than I did for Jerry, and Jerry and I roomed together for two years at Dartmouth. Now, cutting the old emotional ties to Robert makes me feel even more vulnerable to Brian. And I was already vulnerable. Yep, I have a problem here. 

 

I see two courses of action I can take. One course of action, one that doesn’t appeal to me at all, is to talk to Brian about what we have and where we think we’re going. I can’t emphasize strongly enough how little I want to do that. I hate talking about ‘relationships’ and ‘what we are to each other.’ Jerry and I sort of slid into a relationship; I can’t remember ever talking about it with him. We shared a room, we fucked, and that was it. 

 

With Robert, he was the one who delved into our damn emotions and the mechanics of our cohabitation. He was the one who brought up the idea of sharing an apartment; he was the one who said 'The Words' first. Notice that it took a visit from Robert before I questioned my relationship with Brian. So, Robert, couldn’t you stay around and talk to Brian for me? Fucking deserter.

 

If I’m reluctant to discuss my feelings with Brian, I can’t imagine how much more resistant Brian will be. Brian doesn’t do boyfriends, and he doesn’t do feelings, either.

 

My other option, the much more appealing option, is to do nothing and see what happens. Brian is already used to having me around, so surely, as we’re together longer and longer, I’ll become more important to him. Eventually he’ll recognize our coupleness, won’t he? 

 

Which brings up another question. (God, I hate this whole process.) What do I want out of a relationship? I lived with both Jerry and Robert. Is that important to me, now, especially since Brian and I live in the same building? We’re adults, with independent lives. Perhaps we’d be better off not sharing the same space. God knows I came close to murdering the Jenkins clan a number of times, even including Robert occasionally. Brian and I get together three or four times a week anyway. Perhaps our relationship would be stronger and more enduring if we just continue to spend time together, rather than living together.

 

That is such fucking bullshit! 

 

If we live separately, we’ll just be fuck buddies. The problem with the separate-homes scenario is that we’ll only see each other when we both want company and are ready to be sociable. That’s okay if you just want a good-times friend, but for something deeper and more meaningful, you need to be together in both good times _and_ bad. If Brian, for instance, is in a funk about something, and we’re living separately, he’ll be able to avoid me until he works it out…or overdoses, one or the other. 

 

For a real life example, I’m thinking about that time when I had what turned out to be bronchitis. It was Robert who picked up the phone and called the doctor when I was too fucking sick to make that decision myself. I was still telling myself that it was just a bad cold when I hadn’t been out of bed in three days and had a cough that could be heard a mile away.

 

Brian and I have only been together for five months, so maybe I’m rushing things. On the other hand, I’m 29-years-old, and I’m ready for a lasting relationship. And – damn, I hate saying this, even to myself – I think I am starting to love Brian. Um…maybe ‘am starting to’ should come out of that sentence. Damn it to hell. Did I say I hate this? 

 


	29. Chapter 29

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**15 January 2013** **, Tuesday,** **8:16 a.m.**

 

Notice the time. Barely past 8:00 a.m., and I’m already up and productive. Classes start again on Thursday, so I need to get back on my workday schedule _now_. No more staying up until 2:00 a.m. and sleeping until 10:00.  

 

In the meantime, another episode in “The Brian Kinney Saga.”

 

By the time I finished writing out all the pros and cons of our relationship, I had pretty well decided to let things slide for a while. I’m not unhappy with the present situation, Brian might change, and – crucially – talking to Brian involves effort. So what happened? Brian precipitated the discussion.

 

There was one question Robert didn’t ask, and to which I didn’t volunteer the answer, “Do you cook for Brian?”

 

Aaah…yes. Sometimes he picks something up on the way home, sometimes I cook. Not that we always eat dinner together…Friday nights we are usually at Ben and Michaels, and now and then through out the week Brian takes clients and prospects out to dinner or I have events at school…the sorts of things that keep even committed couples apart. But, yes, I do cook, probably once or twice a week. Nothing elaborate – pick up a salad on the way home, steam some salmon or broil a steak, add some vegetables – and there’s dinner. I get tired of take out. 

 

Last night was colder than a witch’s tit (and that’s frozen), so I stopped by Whole Foods, got some of their tomato bisque soup, some frozen shrimp, the obligatory salad, and a baguette, in case Brian felt like going wild and crazy with the carbs. I was just steaming the shrimp…it’s important not to overcook them…before dumping them into the soup when my door banged open. (Yes, I gave Brian a key a while ago and I have the cipher to his loft.) I jumped; I’d been concentrating on timing my shrimp. “Jesus, Brian,” I said. I knew who it was. 

 

He stalked into the kitchen, preceded by the wave of arctic air he’d brought with him. His overcoat was flapping around him, his hair looked like he’d run his hands through it many times, and he was wild-eyed. He shoved me back against the refrigerator and kissed me roughly. He tasted, faintly, of coffee and strongly of Jim Beam. It was a hot, sexy kiss, but my shrimp were getting over-cooked. I hate rubbery shrimp.  

 

I struggled against him, finally getting one hand planted firmly in the middle of his chest. I gave him a good sharp shove, and he staggered back a step or two. “Put a comma in,” I said, “while I take the shrimp out of the steamer.” 

 

“What, is the wittle housewife afwaid the shwimp will be over-done?” he said in a falsetto.

 

Condescending and annoying.  “Yes,” I said prosaically. I resisted the temptation to dump the steaming shrimp over his Pradas and put the steamer’s basket in the sink to cool. The shrimp didn’t look too done. 

 

“Does the wittle housewife think I’m here to eat the fucking shrimp?”

 

No, I didn’t. I looked at him assessingly. “What happened, Brian? You’re obviously upset.”

 

He moved until he was touching me, grabbed my ass, pulled me against him hard, and ground his hips against me. “Why the hell do you care what happened? What’s it to you if I’m upset? I want a fuck, not a bunch of fucking chatter.”

 

He looked dangerous, and something in me responded to his wildness. I know that however rough the sex gets, he’ll never really hurt me. But first…I was genuinely worried. I pushed him back and said, urgently, “What the fuck, Brian?  You’re drunk.   Has something happened to someone? Is Gus O.K.? Lindsay? Michael?” 

 

He threw himself across the kitchen, away from me. “Is that what you think of me? Do you think I’d come here, drunk, to fuck you if any of them were in trouble? Do you think I’m some kind of a monster?”

 

“I don’t know what to think of you.  Last time I saw you everything was just fine.  Now you are acting like a raging lunatic.  You’re obviously upset about something.  Maybe if you told me what’s the matter, I could help….”

 

I let my voice trail off. The derision was clear on his face. He said, “You really do have the housewife act down don’t you? I came here to fuck, you want to talk.” He said ‘talk’ as though it were the vilest possible obscenity.

 

I said, speaking slowly and choosing my words carefully, “When a friend has a problem….”

 

“You think we’re friends? We’re fuck buddies, remember?  No more, no less.” 

 

_Okay, if that’s the way you want it._ “Is it because Robert was here last weekend?  He and I are through, Brian.  He came to tell me he’s moved in with someone else.”

 

“Why the fuck would I care?  Like I said, we’re just fuck buddies.  You can screw all the ex’s you want.”  

 

I gathered up my courage and told him, “I don’t agree.  We’ve been together five months. That doesn’t make us boyfriends or lovers or partners, but I think it makes us something more than fuck buddies.” I drew a deep breath. “I like what we have, whatever it is. Fucking you is great, but honestly, I want more. We _have_ more already…and you damn well know it.”  

His face darkened.  “And what if I say I don’t want more? Suppose all I want is a convenient body…well, in your case, a hot body…I’ll concede that much…when I need it?”   

My blood pressure was definitely on the rise. “Then look somewhere else.  You are so full of crap, Brian. Don’t give me that bullshit. Don’t pretend that all we’re doing here is sucking and fucking, because the only one you’re fooling is yourself.”

 

“If that’s what you think, then I’m sorry.” He sounded the opposite of sorry. “I must have given you the wrong impression. My fucking mistake. And you know what I do when I make a mistake? I fix it.” 

 

He turned to leave but stopped in the doorway, his back to me. “I lost a client today. Not a big one, but one I worked hard to get.” 

 

“Well, that certainly is reason enough to take it out on me.  Glad to see you’re handling it so maturely.”

 

He slammed the door shut behind him

 

So what the hell was all that about? Where does that leave us? Is there an ‘us?’ Damned if I know. Damned if I’m going to chase after him, either. He can make the next move.

 

The shrimp and soup were fine. I have a lot left over for another day. I wasn’t very hungry. And I never want to hear the words, ‘fuck buddy’ again. 

 

  

 

Go to [Dominance - Chapter ](http://www.livejournal.com/users/chering/21352.html)


	30. Chapter 30

  
Author's notes:   


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**1/15/13**

Bruce Davies probably did me a favor.  That sanctimonious piece of shit made me realize how far out of hand this situation has gotten.  What the fuck did I think I was doing anyway?  I was suffocating.  Slowly but surely, I was turning into the kind of fag I despised.  Funny how his coming into my life, (and leaving it,) coincides with Justin.  

The same week I met Mr. Taylor, I also had a meeting with one of my long time clients, Bonnie Newton, of Advantage Swimwear.  Her company is a local institution and one of the few that had faith in Kinnetik from the beginning.  Our well-researched campaigns coupled with her superior product had grown their market share substantially, and they were now garnering national attention.  The US swim team was eyeing Advantage and that could turn into an eventual Olympic contract.  I thought we were meeting to discuss her proposal to them.  

Instead, over lunch at Enrique's, she dropped the bomb.  "I'm being bought out, Brian.  The offer is just too good to pass up."  I was happy for her; early retirement to some place consistently sunny and warm with plenty of time to spend with her young grandchildren.  It was her dream come true. "I wanted you to be one of the first to know, she continued, "Give you a heads-up on what Bruce Davies will be looking for." 

Bruce, I came to find out, was heading up Competitive Sportswear, a division of Rival.  Rival is international.  They clothe everything from the Pittsburgh Iron Men to the Peruvian soccer team.  If Brown Athletics produced swimsuits, this would definitely be a conflict of interest.  Since they don't, it wasn't. 

"I'm telling you now so you can be ready with a proposal after the first of the year." She advised. "They won't be taking over the reins until then.  Bruce assured me he has his own advertising budget, separate from Rival's, and he will be making the decisions for this line.  He has seen what you did for Advantage, and he is interested in meeting with you." 

"Well, thanks and congratulations, Bonnie, I'm going to miss you."  I told her.  "But, I understand, It’s been a good business, hasn’t it?” "

Yes, it has," she confirmed, "and I have you to thank for a lot of it.” We toasted her new life, and then the red flag popped up.  "I have to warn you," she said quietly, "you are going to have to tone down the ads for Bruce.  He's a Texas bible thumper.  A real good old boy." 

_Great, just what I needed._   I chuckled, "I've dealt with them before, Bonnie, it's just one more challenge in what I do.  Thanks for the advance warning, though.  Get me your latest line by the first of November, and we will make sure all the private parts are well covered by the time I do the pitch." 

"Sound's good, Brian," she confirmed.  "He knows we are having this conversation.  Give it a few weeks and then contact him."  She handed me his card, "He's expecting you."    

We finished our lunch and parted ways with a hug and a promise to keep in touch.  I followed her instructions and set up a meeting to meet with Mr. Davies in New York in October.

 

That meeting went as well as could be expected.  I played the good company president and former senior account executive.  I took him out for a nice dinner, one in which he never even removed his Stetson; and we discussed what his goals were for Competitive Sportswear.  Afterward, I joined him at his choice of bar, pretended to enjoy the Country-Western music and smiled, complacently, as he line danced the night away.  

I don't think I have ever worn my sexual orientation on my sleeve, and everyone who knows me, also knows my personal creed. 'If I'm not sucking your dick, it's really none of your business.'  The topic or what my views were on homosexuality never came up.  I behaved myself and was the perfect gentleman.  Then, when Bruce took his leave, I returned to that bar, grabbed the delectable cowboy I had my eye on through out the evening, took him to my hotel, saddled him up and rode him well into the night.   

My people spent a good part of November and December developing a campaign to Mr. Davies’ standards.  He and his crew met with us as soon as the holidays were over and gave us every indication that it was a done deal.  He took the contract back to New York to have the company attorneys look it over and today, barely a week later; I received a letter dismissing Kinnetik from the account. \

 

_Dear Mr. Kinney,_

_It was a pleasure meeting with you and your staff recently.  Thank you very much for the work you did on behalf of Competitive Sportswear._ _While we recognize your successful, longstanding relationship with Advance Swimwear, we find that Kinnetik's business philosophies and those of Competitive Sportswear are simply too divergent for a healthy business partnership._ _For this reason I regret to inform you we have chosen to contract with another advertising agency and will no longer need the services of Kinnetik, Inc._

_Sincerely,_ _Bruce Davies_  

The son-of-a-bitch didn't even have the balls to tell me to my face.  Divergent business philosophies?  What the fuck?  

After I got the letter, I did a little research of my own.  Apparently Mr. Davies didn't like the fact that Kinnetik's philanthropic dollars were going to the Vic Grassi House and AIDS research while his were going to Family First and Save the Nation. I also discovered, after visiting Pittsburgh, his suspicions that several of my staff and I were 'practicing homosexuals' were confirmed.  

Yeah, I'll bet you had to call in Scotland Yard to figure that one out, Bruce.   Anyway, I spent the better part of the afternoon pondering all of this at Woody's. I am well aware of the fact that we are better off without this bigoted, narrow-minded client in the first place.  But what makes me mad, what infuriates me, is that I will never pass.  

I will always be judged…by some people…not on how hard I work or how many Cleo Awards Kinnetik takes home.  Nope, I will be judged and proved unworthy because I prefer to stick my dick into an ass rather than a cunt.  Furthermore, it doesn't matter if I am in a monogamous relationship or the whore of Babylon.  The mere fact that I'm gay overshadows everything else. In addition, the gay lifestyle that I have enjoyed so thoroughly over the years has come to a screeching halt lately.  Why?   

I can't blame Justin.  I let this happen.  The convenience of having his sweet ass just steps below me has kept me away from the club life more and more as the weeks go by.  Seems like I only venture into Babylon to sign checks or pick up a deposit.  He and I have turned into another set of the happy homogenized homo's I hate and, by the time I left Woody's, I was determined to change that.   

I hadn't planned on breaking off the relationship, however.  All I wanted was to pound his ass so hard he screamed for mercy and then take him to Babylon for some group therapy.  But he was more concerned with his shrimp, and all I could see was every other boring relationship, straight or gay, being formed right before my eyes.  

I told him I just wanted to fuck, needed to fuck and he began to psychoanalyze me like he was Lindsay.  He wanted to help, he wanted to talk, and he wanted to reprimand me for drinking too much.  

Justin sounded just like Joannie and I'm ashamed of the fact that I probably sounded a lot like Jack.  I know how that relationship ended, and I'll be damned if I repeat it.   

To top it off, he gave me an ultimatum.  The fuck buddy arrangement isn't working for him anymore.  He wants more and if I don't, I need to look elsewhere.  So, regretfully, that's what I'll do.     

 


	31. Chapter 31

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**8 January 2013** **, Friday, 9:06 p.m.**

 

I haven’t seen Brian in three days, not since what I’ve come to think of as our Shrimp Fight. Damn, I think I’ve fought with Brian more in the past five months than I fought with Robert in three years…which probably does not bode well for a long term relationship…AND I hate fighting.

 

 

I thought that perhaps he’d use Friday night dinner with Michael and Ben as an excuse to make up but…my luck…no Friday night dinner. Red Cape Comics is slow right now, so Michael and Ben flew to Orlando for a visit with Debbie, Michael’s mother, and her partner, Carl. They left yesterday, and Ben is coming back on Sunday, but Michael is staying longer. Anyway, no dinner tonight. So no Brian and no rapprochement.

 

 

**22 January 2013** **, Tuesday, 8:45 p.m.**

 

 

I’ve seen Brian twice in the week since the Shrimp Fight. One time we shared an elevator on the way out in the morning, then today we met at the mailboxes after work. Both times he’s been both polite and distant: “Hi. How are you? Cold today, isn’t it?” I guess that, in his mind, we’re finished. In my mind…yeah, it’s over. I had my doubts about us before the Shrimp Fight, and Brian’s actions are confirming my worst fears. He’s just not relationship material.

 

 

God, that makes me so sad. So much potential…gone. Shot to hell because Brian Kinney is a fucking coward.

 

 

Life goes on, however, doesn’t it?

 

 

**16 February 2013** **, Saturday, 10:15 a.m.**

 

 

Saturday and I’m finally beginning to feel like I just might live again. Crazy, miserable, and just plain fucking weird are all words I would use to describe the last couple of days.

 

 

Thursday was our anniversary. One month to the day since the Shrimp Fight. Not that I’m counting or anything. I was still waiting for Brian to make the first move. Actually I’d long since realized that was not going to happen. I knew that the fight wasn’t just because he was in a bad mood and looking for someone to take it out on. No, if that were the case, he’d have ignored the fight as if it never happened, caught me off guard, sucked me or fucked me, and gone on like it never happened. That’s his pattern. My pattern, of course, would be to let him have his way with me. We’ve already established that I’m far too easy.

 

 

I thought seriously about our relationship since then. I decided I had to move on. If Brian came to me, if he was willing to admit to friendship, at the least, then I’d be willing to work with him. He obviously has commitment issues…he wouldn’t be single at 38 otherwise, would he?…but I…um…(I’m whispering now) love him, (resume normal volume) and I’d be willing to meet him more than half way. There’s no meeting at all if I go 100% of the way, is there? So, I decided I have to get over him and go on with my life.

 

 

It hasn’t been easy, living 42 steps below him. I can’t count the number of times I’ve listened to the elevator rumble past my floor and been tempted to meet him on his landing. I haven’t given in, but it’s been a long month. Of course, Brian and I continue to see each other. We meet in the elevator, in the foyer, coming and going. We always speak, we’re always polite, but no information passes between us. The chill is mutual. More accurately, his chill seems heartfelt, my chill is a façade.

 

 

My first reaction - when Michael and Ben were out of town and Friday night dinner was cancelled – was disappointment. I wanted the chance to see if the storm had blown over. By the next Friday, with Michael still in Orlando, I was becoming resigned to the change in our relationship. Ted and Blake hosted us that Friday, and when Brian had an excuse not to make it, I interpreted that as the statement I’m sure it was. As far as I was concerned, the first step to getting over Brian was avoiding him, so I knew it was for the best. Then the next week I was in San Diego for an AEA meeting, and I stayed over until Sunday with John and Diane. (Sailboating on San Diego Bay in February! Excellent.) Last Friday I went to Mom’s to finally meet Molly’s Matt. Yesterday…I skipped yesterday, too.

 

 

I don’t usually go out on a weekday – of course, when I was fucking Brian, I didn’t need to go out to get laid – but on Thursday…on the anniversary…I didn’t want to stay in and mope. So I went to the Painted Pony – I’ve been avoiding Woody’s - and picked up a friendly guy named Tony. I was thinking seriously of taking him home, but Tony was from out-of-town (Oil City, for God’s sake), had heard about Babylon for years, and was determined to go once before returning to the wilds of Pennsylvania. I thought, What the fuck, if I lived in Oil City, I’d want to see Babylon, too. It’s a big place, and I know how to avoid Brian. In addition, he might not even be there on a Thursday. I stole somebody’s baseball cap off a coat rack on my way out of the bar and jammed it on my head, bill to the back. No point advertising my presence.

 

 

Babylon was mobbed, but I must still be on the A-List, so we went right in. The lights were flashing, the music was pulsing, and the boys were dancing. I looked for Brian but didn’t see him. Good. Tony grabbed a beer, and we pushed our way onto the dance floor and started moving.

 

 

I swear to God, at that point I was still feeling fine, though for some reason I didn’t want a beer. However, as we gyrated to the thumpa-thump, I suddenly realized that I was going to need a bathroom very soon. We were near the stairs up to the catwalk, and I knew that Brian had a bathroom attached to his VIP backroom upstairs. I was strongly averse to being ill in the general admission bathrooms. I leaned closer to Tony and said, “Right back.” He nodded, and I set off for the bathroom.

 

 

As I wriggled, pushed, and shoved through the crowd, up the stairs, and along the catwalk, I started having sharp stomach pains. I moved even faster, reaping a few curses as I went. I crossed the VIP backroom – even feeling as ill as I was, I took time to look for Brian – nope – turned into the bathroom, and grabbed the first stall. I didn’t even get the door shut before I lost everything I’d eaten and drunk since lunchtime. That delightful experience was followed by an equally delightful bout of diarrhea. I shut the stall door and leaned my head against its coolness, wondering if I dared to go home now. No. Round Two followed in a minute or two. Apparently I hadn’t thrown up everything the first time.

 

 

When I was finished, I slid down the wall of the stall and sat on the tiles, my arms wrapped around my knees, as I tried to conserve body heat. I was shaking uncontrollably. A bout of shivering would last 30 or 45 seconds, there’d be a five-second pause, then I’d shake for another half a minute or so. I sat and shook and thought about rare diseases that start with stomach pain (which was now gone, by the way), vomiting, diarrhea, and shaking: ebola fever, cholera, dengue fever. Not that I know the symptoms of those diseases, but I know they’re deadly.

 

 

I could hear muffled music from the club, but then I heard steps much closer, entering the bathroom. I opened my eyes and looked under the stall door. Prada boots and black D & G jeans, high tops and retro jeans from the Gap. Fuck. Brian and a twink.

 

 

My first instinct? My first instinct was to let Brian know where I was and that I was sick. I knew what he’d do. He bark at me to open the stall door, he’d scoop me up (maybe not literally, I am 5’ 6” after all) and take me home, get me up that damn staircase and into bed, and make sure I had plenty of bottled water and blankets before he left. If he left. If he didn’t sleep on the couch. It was a damned attractive vision, and I was tempted.

 

 

The twink prevented me. “I wanted to dance some more,” he said. I heard a pout I couldn’t see.

 

 

Brian chuckled, a rich, baritone chuckle. “You can dance your ass off when we’re done here. Right now I have plans for it.”

 

 

_Fuck. He’s high. E? Or just booze?_

 

 

The twink squeaked. “Oh, please. I wanna fuck.”

 

 

_Damn. I don’t want to listen to this. I’ll probably throw up again._

 

 

As usual, Brian wasn’t much for the snappy repartee. “C’mon,” he said, and I heard the door of the next stall shut.

 

 

I shook some more and listened to kissy sounds and twinky gasps, followed by a thump which I guessed was the twink hitting the side of the stall. There was a lot more gasping, another chuckle from Brian, and then a real moan. Not a moan of passion, a pain-filled, hurting moan. The moan was followed by a long silence, then Brian said, “Have you ever done this before?” He sounded a lot more sober, suddenly.

 

 

“Yes…and I want to do it again.” The twink’s voice started out firm, but by the ‘again,’ it was wavering badly.

 

 

“Not in a bathroom stall in a club, you aren’t. Go home with somebody more your age or the two of you get a room somewhere, and take it slow and easy. Now pull up your fucking pants.”

 

 

Snuffling and muffled sobbing sounds. I rolled my eyes. Brian was probably rolling his. “For God’s sake, don’t cry. This is not your fault. It’s my fault.”

 

 

Louder sobs.”It is so my fault. I’ve been watching you for weeks. I’m in love with you You’re wonderful, and I’m (gasp, sob), I’m just noth-thing.”

 

 

“Fuck. Listen, I said it was my fault, and it is my fault, kid. Look, I’m old enough to be your fucking father. I should never have brought you back here, but I’m a little high…I’m tweaked…you reminded me a little of my boyfriend…I made a mistake.”

 

 

“You have a (gasp) boyfriend.” No more sobs; although there was still a lot of snuffling. The twink’s voice was almost accusatory. “I never saw a boyfriend.”

 

 

“Come to think of it, my fucking boyfriend…or ex-boyfriend…or whatever the hell he is, is almost old enough to be your father, too.”

 

 

_I don’t think so. Even if the kid is only seventeen, I don’t think I would have fathered him at twelve._

 

 

I heard a kissing sound, the kind of sound lips make on a cheek or forehead, the stall door opened, and both sets of feet came into view. Brian said, “You’re a good kid. Now run along. Pick on someone your own age next time.” I heard the sound of a hand smacking jeans’ material, and the twink bounced on his feet a little. They left the room together.

 

 

My shaking had stopped but I was very tired. I curled up on the tile and fell asleep instantly. I slept until a couple of people came in to use the facilities in the ordinary way, at which point I got up, found myself a taxi, went home, got up the staircase in time for Round #3, crawled into bed, and slept, with short breaks for tea with honey, until about an hour ago.

 

 

So I didn’t make it to last night’s dinner, but I have a lot to think about before _next_ Friday’s.

 


	32. Chapter 32

**1/21/13**  

I saw Justin today.  

I’ve seen him three times since the parting of the ways, but I’m fairly certain this is the first time he saw me.  Previously, I spied him from my window, entering and leaving the building, but he didn’t appear to be looking up.  

Today, however, it was unavoidable.  I left a little later than usual for work and as the elevator slowed on the third floor, I knew that the ‘first time’ was inevitable. He was looking down until the thing came to a complete stop, probably saying a little prayer that he was going to run into some trick leaving my place rather than me.  

Sliding the gate open, our eyes locked for a second or two and an almost inaudible, “Oh,” escaped from his throat.  He quickly diverted his eyes and stepped in. 

“Hi, how are you?” I asked. 

“Fine, and you?” 

“Great.” 

“Good.” 

That was the extent of it as we rode the rest of the way in silence.  He preceded me out, and I watched his ass make its way to the front door.  

My mind was saying, “Justin, wait.  Do you want a ride to school?  I could give you a ride and then we could talk about what happened and maybe you could explain to me just what it is that you need.  And maybe, just maybe, what you want isn’t so far away from what I can give.” 

My mouth did not cooperate, however.  It remained shut, and as we exited he turned to the left and I turned to the right.  I walked to my car silently, all the while fighting the urge to look back.   

That was the smart thing to do.  I’m 38, I know what he wants and I know myself well enough to realize that I am never going to make someone a good partner.  Fuck it.  Move on. 

  


**2/14/13**  Valentine’s Day.  

What a fucking useless holiday.  

Usually it passed without any particular fanfare but not this year.  Why?  Michael set me up. 

Not date set me up, THAT I could handle.  This was far worse.  He set me up in my least favorite of ways, forced communication.  

He called while I was at work and hooked me in under the pretext that he didn’t want to be alone.  Pathetic asshole. 

“Brian?” 

“Yeah.” 

“What are you doing?” 

“Working.” 

“I mean tonight.  What are you doing tonight?” 

“Then why didn’t you say that?” 

“Sorry, I’m distracted. (Whispering) There’s a kid, looks to be about 11, trying to rip off the latest copy of Laser Man over in the corner.”   

“And what?  You need me to do something about it?   Tell him you’ve got the police on the phone and I’ll scare the shit out of him.” “

No” He chuckled. “It’s the version where he finally admits his love for Electro Boy, takes him to his lair and fucks him.  From the looks of the kid’s clothing, he probably needs to read it.  Know what I mean?  Red Cape will survive the three dollar loss.”

“You’re fucking pathetic, Michael.” 

“Yeah, I know.  Somebody keeps telling me that.  Anyway, what are you doing tonight?  Wanna come over for dinner?” 

“It’s a Thursday, Michael.  Dinner party on a Thursday?” 

“No, it's Valentine’s Day, Brian, and I don’t want to be alone.  Ben’s gone.” 

“Oh, he left you?  Shall I bring champagne?” 

“Very funny.  He’s in New Hampshire at a conference.” 

“Does this mean you want to fuck me?” 

“Cut it out, Brian.  It means I want to get stoned with my best friend and eat lots of junk food.”   

“Ah, I see.  You want to live dangerously while the warden is gone.”   

“Exactly.”   

He was right, it had been too long.  So, with the promise of it being ONLY us, I agreed.  

I arrived, joints and bottle of JB in hand to a smorgasbord of Taco Bell, KFC and Pizza Hut.   And to think people actually assume I’m the bad influence of this pairing.   

“Care for a drink or three before we dive in?”  I asked, holding the bottle at eye level.   

“Sure.”   He handed me two tumblers.  It had the makings of a promising evening.  

Michael and I finished off that first drink and then another before either of us ate a bite.  We carried the food into his living room, deposited it on the floor and toasted to the holiday. 

“Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said as he crossed his legs and attempted to hold his glass high as his body folded.  I laughed and caught it before the amber liquid hit the ground with him.  

We giggled like schoolgirls about nonsense as we tore into the meal that I knew I would soon regret.  Sitting on his rug, surrounded by cardboard containers, paper napkins and grease, I couldn’t help but think of how different this indoor picnic was from the last one I attended.   

After we were adequately stuffed, Michael stood up to grab a joint and I busted out laughing.   

“What’s so funny?”  He asked, looking down at me. 

“You have bean burrito on your ass.  You look like you shit yourself.” 

“Where?  Get it off.” 

“I’m not touching your ass.  Not in your current state.  You’d probably rape me and then your husband would find out, beat me and leave you.  Then I’d be stuck with you for the rest of my life.” 

“I’ve got news for you,” he said as he headed into the bathroom.  “You’re gonna be stuck with me regardless.” 

“Yeah, I know.”  I said with a smile, but not loud enough for Michael to hear. Emerging from the bathroom, all cleaned up, he lit the joint, took a toke and handed it to me.  Holding it in, he spoke through clenched teeth.  “Speaking of being stuck with someone, what ever happened with you and Justin?” 

“Don’t go there, Michael.”  I warned as I expelled the weed from my lungs.  The long, slow, labored act of trying to hold a meaningful discussion while passing a joint back and forth had begun.

“Why?  I feel responsible.” 

“Responsible for what?” 

“Well, it was Ben and I who hooked you two up, sorta.” 

“Michael, as much as you would like to be responsible for everything that happens in my life, don’t worry about it.  You weren’t.  We managed this all by ourselves.”  

“So…is it over?” 

“It’s over.” 

“Tell me about it.” 

“You mean he hasn’t?” 

“No, I think he respects you too much for that.  God alone knows why.” 

The weed had definitely taken hold. Pretending to tear up, I batted my eyes and sniffed.  “He broke up with me.  It hurts too much to talk about.”   

“Fuck you, Brian,” he giggled, “what really happened?” 

“Hey, I’m serious.  He dumped me.”   

“Why?” 

“The official reason?  He was no longer happy with the agreed-upon arrangement.” 

“And that was?” 

“Fuck buddies.”   

“Mmm, I understand.” The joint was finished now.  And we were both in that introspective mood.  Michael was actually silent.  And, like an idiot, for the first time in my life, I couldn’t stand it.  Maybe it was the pot, or the JB, or maybe I really am a masochist, but I spoke.  And as soon as the words came out of my mouth, I regretted it. “You understand?” 

“Uh-huh.”  He nodded and then, god-damn-it, he went on.   “Define fuck buddy for me, Brian.” 

“Um....someone whom I fuck, frequently, no strings attached.”   

“Well then, it’s obvious the agreed-upon arrangement wasn’t working for either of you.”   

“It was working just fine for me.” 

“No, it wasn’t, because by that definition, you and Justin were never simply fuck buddies and you know it.”   

_(There was a long silence here while I mentally beat myself.  Then he continued.)_ “You also know that I love you, right?”  _(Shit, things were going from bad to worst.)_ “Brian?” 

“Yeah.” 

“I do love you.  Always have, always will, but I’m going to say something right now that might piss you off.” 

“Well, wouldn’t THAT be a rarity.” 

“Fuck you.  You were fine with Justin as long as you could keep fooling yourself that you two were nothing more than fuck buddies.  But, when he challenged that idea and pushed for a better definition, you freaked.”   

_(I stared at him blankly and slowly shook my head.)_ “I told you before, don’t go there, Michael.”  _(I may as well have been talking to the pizza box.)_  

“Because, if you acknowledged that what you had with him was more than that, you might be making a commitment to someone.  And in your mind, commitment must lead to a sad imitation of that despised institution, heterosexual marriage.  Am I right?”

_(I was still staring at him but no longer blankly.  My eyes were beginning to squint and I could feel the blood rushing to my face.)_ “Just shut the fuck up, Michael.” 

“No, you are going to hear me out.  Why does it have to be all or nothing with you, Brian? Not every committed relationship ends up like your parents.  Fuck, you don’t ever have to get married, but why deny yourself love?  You liked being with Justin.  You two were good for each other, and now you’re both unhappy just because he cared about you too much?  I hate to say it, but if you keep up this silly charade, you deserve to be miserable.  But Justin?  He deserves better.” 

_Using the arm of his couch, I lifted myself up and brushed off the crumbs while his eyes followed me._  “Thanks for the food, Mikey.”  I said as I grabbed my jacket.  “Sorry about the mess.” 

“Maybe you should be saying that to Justin,” he yelled as I headed toward the door.   Raising my right hand I flipped him off without looking back.    

I stepped outside and the cold air hit me like a slap in the face.  Was it the air or his words that had sobered me up so quickly?  Michael gets picked on a lot for not being the brightest crayon in the box, but, like Debbie once said; when it comes to knowing what somebody needs, he’s a fucking Picasso. 


	33. Chapter 33

  
Author's notes:   


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**18 February 2013; Monday, 9:30 a.m.**

I’ve been standing in front of a window that looks west, watching the snow come down. It’s a February snow, so the flakes are large but not moist enough to clump. At times it is snowing so hard that I can only see as far as Tremont Street. Then it will slow down and the horizon will recede, and I think I see the Allegheny, dark gray in the light gray distance. It never stops snowing completely; the prediction is for over two feet before it ends.

The storm was expected, but even so I was surprised when I got up to what looks like nearly twelve inches on the on the ground already. You know, if rain is predicted, when you wake up, you can tell if the prediction was accurate: you can hear the rain. But snow is a sneak attack. You have to see it to confirm it. This attack is shaping up as a major assault. A Snow Emergency has been issued for the Pittsburgh area, which means that only essential personnel are allowed on the roads: doctors, nurses, policemen, firemen, and – of course – the inevitable women in labor. I don’t think Associate Professors of Economics are essential personnel nor are ad executives or owners of dance clubs. So both Brian and I are snowed in, separately.

I went back in my journal today and read some of the entries I wrote right around the time I moved here. One sentence in particular struck me. I was looking at this apartment, and I met Brian in the elevator. I didn’t know for sure who he was yet, but I wrote, “It’s not going to be over until I have you under me, panting, eager, and moaning, ‘Justin, Justin.’” If that hasn’t happened, does that mean it’s not over? Food for thought on a snowy day, huh?

**20 February 2013** **, Tuesday, 10:11 a.m.**

The storms are over, and outside the snow is already melting. In the case of the storm inside, the ice has melted completely.

 

After I wrote my entry yesterday, I stood at the window for at least another half hour, watching the snow fall and thinking about myself and what sort of a person I think I am. I think I set goals, I think of creative ways to achieve them, and then I persevere until I reach them. Am I that person when I’m with Brian? Um…don’t think so. The hell with deciding whether I’ve been submissive or not, I’ve certainly been reactive. Somehow or other, Brian always has the initiative. I needed to change that. I stuck my feet in my moccasins and climbed the 42 steps to the fourth floor. 

 

As soon as I saw the door, my gut lurched. There’s definitely something very wrong…or very right…when the mere sight of someone’s door makes you start getting hard. This door, however, triggers some highly erotic memories, which my dick remembers in lurid detail.

I keyed in the cipher and the door unlocked. Without letting myself think about what the unchanged cipher meant, I pushed the door open far enough to be able to see the back of Brian’s head as he sat on the couch, watching a movie. “The Godfather.” How typical.

I gave the door another shove, let myself in, and turned to shut it. When I faced the room again, my back to the door, Brian was walking around the couch toward me, silent in his bare feet. The look on his face, and the grace with which he moved, was that of a large hunting cat on the prowl. I sucked in a breath and stepped out of my moccasins. 

I had a plan for this encounter. First we would talk, and I’d use the conversation I overheard to get him to ‘fess up to his feelings. If he was as horny as I was, that part would take five minutes, max. Then we’d move on to the sex part, lots and lots of very hot sex. I swear, that was my plan, and I seriously expected to implement it. I forgot that Brian had to play his part for it to work, and I forgot how strongly Brian affects me.

As Brian walked toward me, he crossed his arms at his waist, grabbed the hem of his undershirt, pulled it over his head, and dropped it behind him. As soon as it was over his head, he resumed staring at me, his gaze hot and dark. I grabbed the bottom of my sweatshirt and dragged it over my head. Now he was pushing his jeans down over his hips, his engorged cock springing out.  He stopped walking to pull his jeans off, hopping from foot to foot. I stood stock still, mesmerized by his unwavering stare, his bobbing dick. Without looking away, I pushed my sweats down, stepped on first one cuff, and then the other, and wormed my feet free. The cool air hit my burning body, and I shivered. Then Brian was upon me.

He pushed me back against the door, and I gasped as my body hit the cold metal. He pressed up against me, our bodies touching everywhere, from shoulders to thighs. My cock was throbbing against his thigh, his cock stabbed into my belly. I had been hot before. Now our joined heat turned my body molten. My knees felt weak, but in this position I couldn’t fall. I bracketed his head with my hands and pulled his mouth down to mine. He kissed me open-mouthed, warm and wet and tasting of coffee and cigarettes. I moaned and gave him my tongue to suck. 

He ran his hands down my body to my dick and covered it with one warm hand. I pulled away from his mouth and ground against his hand, whimpering. Then, suddenly, I was overcome by feelings of recklessness. I wanted Brian to feel a little of what I’d felt this past month. I rubbed my unshaven chin against his neck and over his collarbones. I wanted to hurt him, to make him want me the way I wanted him, to get him so hot that he lost all control. I nipped his neck hard, right where the muscle arcs into the shoulder. I didn’t just want him crazy, I wanted him scary crazy. 

He grabbed my head in both hands. “Damn it, Justin,” he said, his jaw clenched. 

“You have a problem?” I stretched my mouth into what should have been a smile. I turned my head and nipped his bicep, being careful not to break the skin. He’d have bite marks there, though. 

He grabbed my shoulders and jerked me away from the door. His mouth covered mine and ground down on it roughly. I closed my teeth around his lower lip and threatened a bite. Then I went up on my toes, guided my cock into alignment with his, and wrapped my hand around both of them. He wrenched his mouth away from mine and growled at me. His irises were huge, with only a narrow band of color still visible. This time my smile was genuine. “Like that?” I said, putting a purr into my voice. 

Brian responded by grasping my hips and pulling me firmly against him. I ran my thumb over the head of his dick, smearing the pre-come. He gasped. I let go of our penises, dropped back on my heels, and looked around the room. I towed him in the direction of the kitchen and boosted myself up on the counter. I spread my legs and said, “Suck me off.” 

He looked at me and raised one eyebrow sardonically. I clamped my legs around his waist and pulled him close, until his belly was touching the counter. I wrapped one hand around the back of his head and stuck my tongue in his ear. I sucked his earlobe and kissed and nipped my way down his neck to his shoulder. I listened to the soft sounds that escaped him with every nip and kiss. “Did you hear what I said? Suck…me…off.” I leaned back, bracing myself on one arm, scooted my ass to the very edge of the counter, and spread my legs wider. “Now,” I said, and I pushed his head down. 

He pushed back for a moment, resisting, and then his lips closed around my cap and his tongue probed my slit. I leaned back a little farther, pushing my hips toward him, and was rewarded with his mouth moving down my shaft, his tongue pressing against the vein on the underside. I moaned, shut my eyes, and concentrated on the sensation. He sucked and I moaned again, wrapping my legs around him, holding him in place.  Another contraction around my dick, and I sagged lower on the counter, balanced on my elbows now. Again and again his mouth moved on my dick, and I stopped trying for any sort of verticality. I let myself down, flat on the counter top, and covered my eyes with one hand while I raked the other through Brian’s soft hair. He sucked hard again, his tongue push-pause-pushing against the vein. I whined and raised my legs, hooking my ankles together higher behind his back. I was acutely aware of how exposed this left my asshole.  He pulled his mouth up my shaft slowly, then stood up straight. I opened my eyes and blinked at him, my mouth slightly open. “Wha…?”

He grabbed my hands and my ankles unlocked as he pulled me to a sitting position. “Don’t move,” he said and was off on a treasure hunt. First he delved into the pockets of the jeans he had been wearing – lube and condom, no doubt – then he looked around and grabbed his workout mat from its place in a corner of the room. The mat was triple folded into a neat rectangle. Brian dropped it at my feet, still folded, and said, “Not quite tall enough.” I nodded and lay down again, my legs swinging loose, my heels bumping the cabinet below the counter.

When he stepped up on the mat, I hooked my ankles behind him and heard the click of the lube top, then two slick fingers pushed their way in. I tightened my legs involuntarily, and I heard Brian chuckle. Then his mouth was engulfing my dick again, and I was gasping for breath. He sucked and bumped my prostate with one finger, and I felt my orgasm building. Then the cool air hit my wet dick, his fingers were gone from my asshole, and his cock was pressing hard against it. He grabbed my shoulders to keep me from sliding on the counter and pushed. I threw my head back, clamped my eyes shut, and bore down. He was in. “Oh my God,” he hissed, and I groaned a response.

 

He began moving in me slowly - pressing in a bit further with each thrust, then pulling out a little, then pushing in again – not what I wanted. I wanted fast and hard. I was particularly helpless in this position, however. Once I tightened my legs around him, there was nothing else I could do to speed him up. I couldn’t even get purchase with my hands on the slippery countertop to force myself further onto his cock. Meanwhile, my very helplessness was making me harder. 

So I did the only thing I could do, the thing I always end up doing with Brian: I begged. I ran my hands up and down his arms and whined, “God, Brian. Harder. Please. Now.” I squirmed a little, to the best of my ability. “Pah-leeeze. Oh, God. I can’t stand it. Brian. Brian, Brian.” I was chanting in time to his rhythm, my eyes fixed on his face, pleading.  I thought, in some small, rational area of my brain that continued to function, _This is_ not _having him under me panting and moaning, and I don’t give a damn. Just for God’s sake make me come, Brian._ I may even have spoken out loud.  

He gritted his teeth, bore down with his hands on my shoulders, and slammed into me. I screamed, “Yes. Yes. Don’t stop.” 

He didn’t. He slammed into me again and again, until finally he was shuddering and shaking over me and in me. 

As his last spasms spent themselves, he covered my rigid cock with one hand. I caught my breath and let it out on a moan. Then his mouth engulfed me, pulling on my dick, and I was over the edge, gasping and clutching his hair. 

When we had cleaned up a little, Brian gave me a tug and said, “Shower.” I nodded and followed him into the bathroom. We still hadn’t talked. Brian had seriously disrupted my agenda. Nothing wrong with right now, I thought as I watched the water pour out of the showerhead. The water takes forever to heat up in Pittsburgh in February. I said, “Did you realize that last Thursday was one month from our Shrimp Fight?”

That got his attention. “Our _Shrimp Fight?_ ”

“You know…when you lost that client and tried to pick a fight with me and I was cooking shrimp….”

“Oh. Yeah, I remember that night.”

“Well, last Thursday it was one month.”

“So?”

“So I didn’t want to be home by myself, so I went to Babylon.”

“And?”

“And I got really sick, with a stomach virus….”

“Yeah….”

“And I didn’t want to be sick in the regular bathroom, so I used your VIP bathroom.”

“Good. I approve.”

“And while I was in one of the stalls, feeling like I wanted to die, some guy in Prada boots and black D & G jeans took a twink into the next stall.”

No response. I could see the water steaming now, but Brian made no move to step into the shower. 

“He never fucked the twink. Said the twink reminded him of his _boyfriend._ ”

“And….”

“Don’t play dumb, Brian. You know who you meant.”

“Yeah. So?”

“Brian! That’s what the Shrimp Fight was about…whether I was your boyfriend or just a fuck buddy.”

He looked perplexed. He squinted as though trying to bring the past into focus. “Okay, but I still don’t understand what the fuck shrimp have to do with whether we’re boyfriends or not?”

“Never mind.” I sighed and gave him a shove in the direction of the shower. “You know you’re impossible, don’t you?”

“So I’ve been told.” 

We showered, watched the rest of “The Godfather,” argued about what to watch next, watched “What’s Eating Gilbert Grape,” watched “Alien Sex Party,” fucked, went downstairs to get something to eat; in other words, enjoyed a typical snow day in Pittsburgh.

**22 February 2013** **; Friday, 11:46 p.m.**

I’m just back from Woody’s. I joined Brian there for an hour after dinner at Michael and Ben’s, but I didn’t feel like going on to Babylon. Brian said he needed to stop by but that he’d be here before 1:00 a.m., so this is a hurry-up entry.

I was late getting to Michael’s this evening even though I went there straight from work. It was all my fault, too – the writing was going well, and I lost track of time. Anyway, I was the last to arrive. I walked in just in time to hear Brian say, “Where the hell is that little shit, anyway?”

Michael, God bless him, said, “You mean your boyfriend?”

“Yes, I mean my fucking boyfriend. If he’s going to be late, he could call, damn it.”

I shut the front door and said, “Hey.”

Michael said, “Oh, hi, Justin. You’re late.”

“Sorry.” I looked at Brian. “I should have called….” I moved next to him and said, in a bare whisper,”…my boyfriend.”

“Damn straight,” Brian said. He put his arm around my waist and pinched me, hard….

Opps. No more now. Gotta wind this up…I hear a key in the lock…my boyfriend’s home. 


	34. Chapter 34

  
Author's notes:   


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7 December 2013  
Saturday 9:30 a.m.

God, it’s been a year since that time Brian went to California and never told me he was going and never once called. A year. More than a year since I met him. Less than a year since he finally said that dangerous word, ‘boyfriend’ and lived to tell about it.

It’s been a good year for me, professionally. Econo-numeric came out in June and took off like a rocket. Dave Maguire and I worked very hard to make it accessible to non-academics – well, Dave worked harder than I did – he’s the journalist – but we never expected it to make the New York Times’ best sellers’ list. Once it did, neither of us thought it would still be there, six months’ later.

In the personal area I dunno how much progress Brian and I’ve made. He’s in his loft on the fourth floor, I’m in the third floor front apartment, and there are still 42 steps between us. We go to dinner at Michael and Ben’s every Friday night. The rest of the week, unless one of us has another engagement, we eat dinner together. We fuck a lot; and ever so often we have a colossal blow-up. I’m remembering the Big Shrimp Fight and July’s Picnic from Hell and last month’s You’re Too Busy To Be a Boyfriend fight.

The YTBTBAB fight happened after I got back from my book tour. Five cities, four days. And the remark, “You look too young to be an economist,” directed at me more than 57 times. (After I’d heard that six or seven times, I started making hatch marks on the back of an envelope: So…57 documented comments, plus however many before I started tracking them.) And I have no idea how to respond to that statement. “Wanna see my diplomas?”

At any rate, the tour was obligatory, the tour was hectic, and I came home exhausted and seriously needing to get laid.

I hadn’t talked to Brian since Wednesday night, my second night in L.A. As soon as I landed, around 1:00 p.m. on the Saturday, I left a message on his home phone. He never called me back. I called his cell, and it was turned off. I even tried calling Kinnetik, but it was a Saturday afternoon and I got VoiceMail. I left a message, but what was the likelihood of Brian calling the office on a weekend and picking up his messages? I was a little pissed off, let me tell you. It was too much of a rerun of his trip to California – I thought we’d gotten past that.

I unpacked, which mainly consisted of throwing clothes in the washer, then went over and looked at the abstract painting I’d been working on. Usually when I haven’t worked on a piece for a couple of days, I’m all eager to get back to it, but not that day. I hauled out my laptop, read my e-mail, and wrote a couple of thank you notes. I looked through the mail, pulled out a couple of professional journals, and started lackadaisically flipping through them. An article finally caught my eye, and I had just started to read it when I heard Brian’s key in my door.

37º and overcast, and he was barefooted and wearing old jeans and a ‘beater. I remembered we hadn’t fucked since Monday night, unless you count the phone sex on Wednesday, and that I was horny. Then I looked up that long lean body and saw the smirk on his face. He said, “Well, I didn’t expect to see you back in the Pitts until tomorrow night. I thought you’d spend the fucking weekend in sunny California...fucking.”

Now I knew, even as my blood pressure climbed, that in Brian-speak, that meant, “I missed you. I’m glad you’re home.” I also knew that all I needed to do to defuse the situation was stand up, walk across the room, and say, “Fuck me.” Which was what I wanted to do, of course. But, you know, sometimes I just don’t want to be the one who defuses the situation. Sometimes I just want Brian to say what he’s not letting himself think. This was one of those times.

I said, “Maybe if you’d leave your cell on or return your VoiceMail or even…but I know this is a lot to ask…if you just called me yourself, you’d have known when I was arriving. Hell, I’d even have given you my flight number and estimated time of arrival.” _And then we’d already be naked and fucking, asshole._

Brian looked at me quizzically, raising an eyebrow. “Didn’t the widdle boy get any in Cawifornia?”

Eight little words and I went from annoyed to furious. “I have a Ph. D. in Economics, I’m an Assistant Professor at Carnegie Mellon, and I have a book on the New York Times best seller list, all of which you very well know, Brian. Don’t call me a ‘widdle boy.’ It’s not cute and it’s not funny. I heard enough about how cute I am, and how young, at the book-signings. I don’t need to hear it from you, too.”

And then he laughed. The son-of-a-bitch just laughed…and laughed…and laughed.

I approached him and spoke in what I would describe as a calm, rational tone. “Shut the fuck up, Brian, and show me a little respect. I think I’ve earned it. What the fuck is your problem, anyway? ” I may have raised my voice on the last.

He got very still for a moment, and I knew I’d gone too far. Brian doesn’t have problems…which is part of his problem, of course. Then he parroted back to me some of the first words I ever spoke to him.

“I am 29 years old, I am a professor of economics at Carnegie-Mellon, and yes, I use a lot of big words. Sound familiar? Jesus Christ, Justin, why don’t you just have it screen printed on your t-shirt?” He wasn’t laughing anymore. “Your looks belie your age and your intelligence. So what! Is that such a terrible thing? As long as you let it get to you, people are going to continue to use it. Embrace it and they’ll stop.”

That was it. I knew he was right but I wasn’t ready to give him the satisfaction. He didn’t say anything more, just looked at me expressionlessly, and turned toward the door.

I followed him asking, “What about you? Will you stop?” He turned back, and shrugged. I added apologetically, “I _didn’t_ get any in California.”

His lip quirked, and he reached out, grabbing my arm and pulling me close. “I can fix that,” he said. I was still angry, partly because I’d just given in. I snaked one arm around his neck and pushed down on his head until I was able to grind my mouth against his. He tightened his grip on me as I turned my head and latched on to his neck, sucking and nipping ungently.

He sunk his fingers into my hair and yanked. I was glad to see that he looked angry. Good for him. No reason I should be the only one pissed off. He grabbed my shoulders, man-handled me until my back was to the wall and shoved me back against it. My head jerked and thumped against the wall, hard. Brian didn’t apologize.

I shook my head to clear it and thought about being even angrier. I was distracted by the realization that Brian had already unbuttoned and unzipped my jeans and was pushing them down. He dropped to his knees, and my dick was in his mouth. I stopped thinking about anything. I gave myself over to his warm wet mouth surrounding my dick, to his tongue flicking and pressing, and his hands, strong and firm, holding me in place because my knees were threatening to give out. He swallowed around me, and I heard myself yelp. He did it again and…”Oh my God…Brian…fuck, fuck, fuck”… I lost it and came, shaking and clutching his shoulders.

My knees gave way entirely and I slid to a heap on the floor, which put my eyes in a direct line with Brian’s zipper. I looked up and said, “My turn.”

He tugged me to my feet and headed for the couch, hopping from foot to foot, pulling off his jeans. Once ther,I turned him until I had his back to the couch and gave him a little push. He plopped down and I straddled his legs, rubbing my cock against his. I kissed him slowly and thoroughly, a real kiss, not a disguised attack, then slid to the floor to kneel between his legs. God, Brian’s cock, already hardening. I sniffed and thought, _Welcome home, Justin._

I enveloped his dick with my mouth, sliding down and burying my nose in his pubes, but then I pulled back and played. A little lick here, some pressure there, a probe of his slit. I made it last until finally Brian lost patience. He arched into my mouth, pressed his hand to the back of my head, and grunted with intent. I sucked hard, jerking him off with my mouth, and he came. I swallowed, sucked and licked, then climbed up beside him. He turned his head and smiled, and I smiled back, and that was that.

There was no further discussion of phone calls or respect or even of my youth and beauty. However, it seems to me that since then he’s been a little cool, a little distant…maybe sort of wary. Instead of moving forward the way I want to, we’re standing still or maybe even moving a little backwards.

Tonight we’re going to a GLBT Holiday Spirit fund raiser. You know, Brian talks a good game about not participating in community events, but in the end, after he’s done the requisite grumbling, he always does. So we’re each bringing a can of something for the food baskets – I’m bringing a jar of Paul Newman’s Basil and Garlic Sauce and a box of lasagna, and Brian is bringing a bottle of cognac, which tells a lot about each of us – and we’ve both bought lottery tickets, at $100 a pop. I bought two, and Brian bought 13.

The raffle is an efficient fund-raiser. First of all, we each paid $50 for our dinner which, per Emmett, lets them break even on the event. The organization sold all 500 raffle tickets – I know that because Brian initially bought ten, and they came back to him and asked him, and a couple of other people, to buy up the unsold tickets – so that’s $50,000. There are eleven prizes. The ten dinners at four-star restaurants around town were either donated or contributed at cost. I understand that the organization also got a deal on the Grand Prize, a ski trip to Zermatt, so most of that 50K will go to make the holidays cheerier for struggling GLBT families and AIDS patients.

I’m not interested in skiing in Zermatt, but it would be nice to win one of the dinners. You’d think that Brian Kinney, highly successful owner of an ad agency, and Justin Taylor, boy economist and best selling author, would go out to dinner a lot. Well, we do, but not together. He entertains clients; I get entertained by publishers and talk show hosts. When we eat together, it’s usually at home and it’s often out of cartons. Not exactly gracious living. 

We have a 3% chance of getting lucky with one of our 15 tickets. I wish we would. Perhaps a romantic dinner for two would give our relationship the shot in the arm it needs.  



	35. Chapter 35

  
Author's notes:   


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**December 7, 2013**  
4:30 PM

Leo Brown is dead. I just returned from his funeral.

Last Tuesday was his wedding anniversary. He took his wife, Audrey, out for a fancy dinner and never rose from the table. A fatal stroke claimed his life sometime between the main course and dessert. I will miss him.

My business has been a success, thanks in a large part to Leo, who wasn’t afraid to take a chance on me when other clients fled. I learned much from him over the years, quite a bit about how to run a business and a lot more about how to run a life.

Leo restored my faith, or I should say gave me some faith, in the straight generation of my parents. He was an honorable, fair man who knew of my sexuality but never let it cloud our business or personal relationship. He was faithful to his wife. His only indiscretion, if you could even call it that, was his admiration of Asian men.

And it was strictly that…admiration. He enjoyed looking at them from afar. I am confident that, if his interest had ever gone any further, I would have been aware of it. Hell, he probably would have had me set it up. But he wasn’t interested in having sex with anyone but his wife, and he certainly was allowed that minor kink in my book.

Leo’s passing will leave a big emptiness for me both personally and professionally. He and Audrey never had any children. Brown Athletics’ Vice President, Dan Magnuson, does not share Leo’s open mind. I know he has fought Leo for years over the ads Kinnetik produced for them, and I anticipate the loss of their business once our current contract is up in April.

2013 has not been a great year for Kinnetik. The Competitive Swimwear fiasco was just the beginning. Global Pharmaceuticals advertising budget dried up after too many rats died from chowing down on their latest miracle drug, and Dave Clausen over at Wine Country Tours found out the hard way that it’s best not to take Mrs. Clausen back to an Italian resort where he had recently fucked a jealous bell-hop. Mrs. Clausen made out like a bandit on the sale of that company.

Thankfully the Levis’ account made up for those losses, but just barely. Of course there is always Babylon, however, it’s nothing more than a play toy. Just a big boy’s set of pornographic Legos. I never intended for it to be my prime source of income and have no intention of dragging it along with me into retirement. I will hang on to it for a few more years and sell it before my presence there elicits any glances of disgust or pity from its patrons.

I may not be as good with numbers as Justin, but I understand business cycles and the need to stay fresh, diversified, and one step ahead in the advertising industry. I know I have my work cut out for me in 2014. Filling the hole Brown Athletics will leave is going to be monumental.

Filling the hole Justin will leave is going to be just as difficult on an entirely different level. I don’t believe I will even try. If someone would have shown me this scene a couple of years ago, played out like a trailer for a movie, I would have accused them of photoshopping me into the picture. I would have watched Justin and me attending weekly dinners together at Michael’s, him running between our places in my clothes, me routinely picking up his dry cleaning, then I would have shaken my head and asked them if they were on crack.

I should have trusted my initial instincts and never have let our relationship get this far. I know from experience that if you don’t love in the beginning, there is far less hurt in the end. As a homosexual man, I can’t even blame it on biology. There’s no greater force at work here pushing us together in order to procreate. It’s my fucking fault. I let it happen…apparently I wanted it to happen. Justin and I are still friends and we are still fucking, but I am pulling back in other ways and pushing him to put himself first without any baggage for a change.

Why? Because he needs to know he can survive on his own. Oh, he does a great job of that professionally but personally, that’s another story. He went right from his mother’s tit to a couple of different guys in college to Robert and then to me. My god, Robert and I even overlapped. Justin is incredibly fond of telling me - and anyone else who will listen - that he is 30 years old now. But when it comes to being alone, he may as well be a newborn. That’s all fine and good, I guess, if you plan on settling down behind a white picket fence in the suburbs for the rest of your life. But he’s going to be traipsing the globe in the spotlight and I’m not cut out to be the wife that keeps the home fires burning or, worse yet, the one who holds him back.

He’s on a roll and even though he hasn’t told me, I doubt he is long for Carnegie-Mellon or Pittsburgh. Last summer, a book he and a friend had been working on since long before I knew him was finally published. I hadn’t paid it much mind since these academic types are always publishing one textbook or another. But, come to find out, this wasn’t just another run of the mill textbook. Let me tell you, seeing your boyfriend’s name on the New York Time’s non-fiction best seller list for over six months is a wake up call.

I’m proud of him. I really am. He’s done a great job at staying grounded after being pulled in a dozen different directions for a long time now. But he still has so much to learn. Just last month he returned from yet another book tour with his nose out of joint because I hadn’t phoned him every half an hour and because the rest of the world is as surprised as I was by his youthful appearance. Rather than enjoying his freedom and the fact that he will be ‘forever young,’ he whines like a schoolgirl and then demands to be taken seriously like a spoiled little brat.

Now I’d rather have him pull that shit with me than jeopardize his career with an agent or publisher, but if he’s going to be successful and happy he needs to learn to not do it at all.  
Regarding the later, I think he is finally getting the hint. I stopped by his book signing at Barnes and Noble a week or so ago and heard a gracious, “Why, thank you, that’s always nice to hear,” delivered with a smile when a middle-aged lady gushed over his youthful appearance. Regarding the former, well, I guess if I’m not in the picture there’s no reason to be mad if I don’t call.

Tonight he and I are attending some god-awful fund raising dinner at the Gay and Lesbian Center with the whole fucking family, minus Emmett who will be catering it. I ended up purchasing a shit-load of raffle tickets for dinners I’m not interested in having in order to shut Lindsay up. There’s also a grand prize to some ski resort half way across the globe. I’m sure Cynthia and her current beau will be happy to take that off my hands if I win.

Shit, it’s after six. I’ve been sitting in front of this thing for over an hour and a half. Still can’t believe Leo is gone. My head hurts. I need some aspirin and a shower and to fuck somebody so hard it all goes away.  



	36. Chapter 36

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

8 December 2013  
Sunday, 3:30 p.m.

The Holiday Spirit dinner went off well…very well, in fact, I thought. Brian may disagree.

Brian bought a table for ten, and invited all the usual suspects: Cynthia and her date (Joe somebody), Debbie and Horvath, Ben and Michael, and Ted and Blake. Emmett had to work or I’m quite certain there would have been twelve of us. There was a pay bar before, during, and after the dinner, but two bottles of champagne were included with the meal. Dinner was buffet-style, which Brian disdains as bourgeois, but I noticed him happily picking and choosing his way down the line, avoiding all those nasty carbs in the lasagna and the (delicious) mac-and-cheese made with Brie.

After we had all settled back into our seats, Philip took the microphone and said, “At intervals during our dinner meal, I’m going to ask one or another of you to draw a ticket from this fish bowl,” he held the fishbowl up high, in case one or more of us didn’t know what a fishbowl filled with folded lottery tickets would look like, “and we’ll be sending someone and their guest to a wonderful restaurant for dinner. We’re going to save the grand prize drawing until after our fabulous stage show.”

Brian started to say something but I cut him off. “I already told Philip and Tanis that you won’t want to pick a winner.”

Brian looked a little disgruntled at having been anticipated. He said, “Did you tell them I didn’t want to hear my name called as a winner, either?”

Debbie was sitting on his other side. Her mouth dropped open a little, and she said, “Why the fuck not?”

He shrugged. “I can afford to go to any of these restaurants anytime I want,” but of course we don’t, not as a couple, anyway, “and I bought my tickets as a fucking fund-raiser for this organization…which will be very helpful when I file my income taxes in a couple of months. I win, and I’ll have income I don’t need.”

I swallowed a bite of lobster lasagna and said, “Our chance of winning any one drawing is only 3%.” Which was true. I didn’t tell him that our overall chance of one of our fifteen tickets winning something was 24.2%. We still had a better than 75% of not winning anything.

Brian said, “What the fuck is this ‘our’ shit? What are my chances of winning? And why the hell do you think I’ll take _you_ to dinner?”

That’s one of the characteristics that makes Brian such a good manager: his ability to pick out a flaw in an argument quickly and pounce. Fortunately, I’d figured all this out earlier in the day because I’d wondered myself. “Your chance of winning, based on only your 13 tickets?” Brian nodded “A little better than two-and-a-half percent.”

Deb leaned around Brian. “Carl and I bought a ticket. What are our chances?”

I said, “Are you sure you want to know?”

She nodded, her elaborate hairdo bobbing.

I wrinkled my nose. “Less than one percent.” A lot less than 1%, actually, but she didn’t need to know that.

“Fuck,” she said. “Well, thank you inviting us, Brian. Even if we don’t win, we’re having a fucking fabulous time,” and she too dug into the lasagna. It was delicious.

On the fifth drawing, lightening struck. “The winner of the dinner at El Sombrero is…Brian Kinney.”

I looked at Brian warily, but he got up without a complaint and strolled up to the head table. He shook Philip’s hand and took the microphone. I cringed a little, but all he said was, “Thank you very much,” and walked back to the table.

He sat down and Deb said, “Congratulations. I’ve never been to El Sombrero but it sounds like a helluva lot of fun.”

Brian handed her the envelope. “You and Carl can tell me all about it.”

“Brian…what the fuck! You won it. You shouldn’t give me your fucking prize.”

Brian looked pained. “Deb, try to picture me at El Sombrero, eating burritos and drinking beer. Please. Coming to this dinner was bad enough. Don’t fucking torture me again by making me eat Mexican food.”

What the hell are you going to do with a guy like that? Of course El Sombrero serves much more than burritos and beer…if they even serve burritos, which I doubt…and of course Brian would enjoy up-market Mexican cuisine as much as the next man, but for Debbie and Horvath it would be a treat.

I nodded enthusiastically. “Please, Debbie, Carl. Mexican food repeats on me; I really wouldn’t enjoy it.” Nothing repeats on me. I have a cast-iron stomach. But under the table, out of sight, Brian gave my hand a squeeze.

Debbie looked dubiously from one of us to the other. “Are you sure?”

“Debbie, I’m positive. Mexican is just not my thing. And we still have six more chances to win.”

Brian looked at me shrewdly. “And what are the chances of that?”

I took out my PDA. “For the next drawing, 2%.”

“Uh-huh. And what are our over-all chances of winning anything.”

“Our?”

“Might as well.”

“That’ll take a minute.” I fiddled with my PDA, smiling inwardly at the ‘our.’ “11%.”

There was an ominous silence. “11%, huh? What were our original over-all chances?”

I hesitated for a moment. “24%.”

“And where did that 3% number come from?”

“That was our chances of winning on the first drawing.”

“Oh. I see.” He paused, and I looked intently at my plate. “You know you are in a great deal of trouble, don’t you? Just wait until we get home, young man….”

I squirmed, I blushed, and Debbie grinned. She said to Carl, “See why I wanted to sit right the fuck next to them?”

The rest of the meal passed uneventfully, and then ShandaLeer and her two girl friends gave us a wonderful revue, with songs by Judy and Bette and Cindy and ending up with their version of the Dixie Chicks,’ “Sin Wagon.”

By that time it was almost 10:00 and some portions of the audience were getting restless. A significant percentage of the attendees had small children and baby-sitters and extortionate charges by said baby-sitters waiting at home. Tannis said, “Remember, we have one more drawing for that fabulous week in Zermatt, courtesy of Liberty Air and Travel By Zeigler. Our own Lindsay Peterson will do us the honors this time.”

Mel and Lindz were at the head table, and Lindsay looked particularly spectacular in something tight and red. She reached into the fishbowl, pulled out a ticket, and handed it to Tannis. Tannis unfolded it, looked at it intently, paused as though re-reading it, and said. “Justin Taylor.”

I gasped and froze. Brian looked at me and pinched his lips between his teeth. I stood up and leaned over to whisper in his ear. As everybody applauded, I said, “Less than one-half of one percent.”

I turned to walk up to the head table but Brian grabbed my hand and swung me around. More applause as he whispered, “Even more trouble than before.”

I nodded and went up to pick up my envelope.

Later, when we got into the elevator, I asked, “Your place or mine?”

Brian didn’t answer, just looked grim and pushed the button for the top floor. I shivered. Brian does menacing better than anyone else I know. On the other hand, I’m not the sort of guy that most people threaten, so I don't have a lot of data to compare him with. I’m usually thought to be harmless.

Once we were in the loft, he went to the bedroom and took off his top coat and hung it up, took off his jacket and hung it up, and hung his tie on the tie rack. By the time he turned back toward me, I had my coat, tie and jacket off, too, and draped over the back of a chair. As he came toward me, he unbuckled his belt, slid it out of its loops, bent it double, and snapped it loudly. His intent was clear.

Oh, no, I thought, no one – not even Brian A. Kinney - is taking a belt to me. “Brian…Brian, what are you doing?”

He snapped it again. “What does it look like?”

I backed up a little. “You aren’t using that on me.”

“Don’t you think you deserve it? You lied to me.” He looked grim.

“No. No, I don’t. And it wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t the whole truth.” I backed up some more.

“Condemned by your own words. Perhaps a little pain will fucking well teach you to tell me the whole truth next time.”

“I will, Brian, I swear I will.” I bumped into the wall.

He stepped closer, looming over me. “Drop your pants,” he said.

“No, Brian. No. I won’t. This isn’t fun anymore. You could hurt me with that thing.” It was black, about an inch wide, and thick.

“I’m hearing a fucking lot of No’s. Are you trying to make it worse for yourself?”

“No, I’m not….”

He interrupted me. “Another No. That’s it. That’s the last one. If I hear one more tonight, you’ll learn more about pain than you ever dreamed of. Drop your pants.” He ground out the last three words.

I looked into his eyes and shivered again. There was not the slightest flicker of playfulness about him. Am I better off doing what he says and trusting that he won’t really hurt me or should I get the hell out of Dodge? I slid my eyes sideways, trying to gage the distance between me and the door.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said. “I may be older than you are, but my legs are longer and I’m probably in better shape.”

I put up a hand. “All right. But…” I thought about how to phrase my next words…”be careful. Don’t do anything you’ll regret.” And I’ll regret even more. I unbuckled my pants, pushed them down, and toed out of them.

“Briefs,” he said.

“I’ll be naked.” His face hardened. I said quickly, “That wasn’t a No.” I wriggled out of my briefs and stood there, bare from the waist down except for my socks, feeling exposed and vulnerable.

“Apologize.”

“What?”

“Before I punish you, I want to know that you understand why I have to hurt you.”

“I’m sorry. I…I shouldn’t have….”

“Shouldn’t have…what?”

“I should have given you the true odds.”

“Very good. Now tell me what I should do to help you be good in the future.” He held the doubled-over belt in front of my face, inches from my eyes.

I stared at it. It was very black and very thick and very lethal-looking. “I don’t want you to hit me with that…that thing.”

He grabbed it, held it horizontally, and snapped it again, still inches from my face. I felt a little whoosh of air and flinched. “This isn’t about what you want, is it? We agree that you need to learn a lesson. Now we need to agree on what that lesson will be.”

“You’ll hit me with…that?” I nodded toward the belt. “Once?” I said. Brian shook his head. “Twice?”

Brian snapped the belt again. I said, “Five times?”

Brian’s face finally relaxed a little. “O.K. Five times, but only because this is the first time. Understand?”

I nodded.

“Now tell me you deserve to be punished.”

I frowned at him.

He spoke slowly. “Tell me, in your own words, that you agree with your punishment and that you think it’s a good thing.”

I opened my mouth but before I could speak, Brain said, “Think carefully about what you’re going to say now. I don’t have to stop at five. I have a good strong arm. I can easily go ten or even fifteen strokes.” He held up the belt again, so close to my face that my eyes tried to cross.

I took a deep breath, still staring at the sinister belt, and said, “You should punish me. That belt will hurt, but it will teach me to be good.”

He moved the belt so close that it brushed against my cheek. “Kiss it,” he said.

“Kiss it?” I breathed.

“You heard me.”

I took it in my hand, brought it to my mouth and kissed it. I smelt its rich leathery odor.

“Down,” he said. “Face on the floor, ass in the air.”

I dropped to my knees, almost glad to be getting to the painful part. I moved my knees apart and lowered my face to the floor. I braced myself on my forearms and widened the space between my knees even further. My arms were shaking from the strain. Pre-come dripped on the hardwood.

I heard Brian unzip – _my God, he must be hard as a rock – I certainly am_ – and then I heard the sound of a condom being opened. An instant later lubed fingers were opening me up and with his other arm Brian was gathering me in, pulling me toward him. He held me in position with his arm as he guided his cock toward my asshole with the other hand. I put my hands flat on the floor and braced myself, holding myself as still as possible as he pushed in. Once the head was in, he paused and wrapped his hand around my dick. I gasped and started fucking his hand, as hard as I could. He tightened his grip as he pushed in deeper, and I came with a scream. I’d been so hard for so long and now I spasmed and spasmed and finally went limp.

Brian grabbed my hip with one hand and wrapped the other arm around my chest. He started thrusting repeatedly as I lay, boneless, against his body. I was shattered.

After Brian came, we lay where he let us fall and panted. Then he helped me up, hugging me to his body once we were both standing. I laid my cheek against his chest and hugged back. “You wouldn’t really use that belt on me, would you?”

“Sure I would.“

I was quiet for a minute and thought about that. “I guess this time you didn’t need to.”

Brian chuckled.

I yawned and yawned again, slightly dislocating my jaw. It hurt until it popped into place again. “I’m tired,” I said. “So sleepy.”

“Shower, bed, sleep,” he said.

“Shower in the morning. And Zermatt for New Year’s Eve.”

“Yeah.”

I was asleep seconds after my head hit the pillow.  



	37. Chapter 37

  
Author's notes:   


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**26 December 2013  
Thursday night, over the Atlantic  
  
**We’re outta here. Good-bye, Pittsburgh. Hello, Zermatt.   
  
It was a tough sell. Brian had the same sort of ‘generous’ plan for the ski vacation that he’d had for the dinner at El Sombero. He was going to give that away too. But, since that ticket had my name on it, I put my foot down. He couldn’t convince me that much was going to happen at Kinnetik between Christmas and New Year’s…and I reminded him that he had promised I’d spend New Year’s Eve in Zermatt. The last was the clincher. Brian always does what he says he’ll do. He just isn’t usually so careless with his promises.   
  
Liberty Airlines didn’t have any direct flights to Switzerland from Pittsburgh – we couldn’t find any other airline that did – but we were able to book a direct flight from Newark to Geneva. We flew out of Pittsburgh at 6:05 p.m., landed in Newark at 7:45, with an hour and a half layover. Brian never even suggested visiting a bathroom during our layover, which worries me a little. Remember, I said he’d seemed a little distant lately? I think that not trying for a quick blowjob is a Bad Sign.  
  
As it turned out, it took almost all of our hour and a half to pick up our luggage, find the international terminal, recheck our luggage, and go through security. By the time we got to our gate, we had a very short wait until they started boarding first class passengers, which includes us. I didn’t argue when Brian purchased the upgrade. Sitting in steerage for…what?…eight?…nine hours? is no fun for me, and Brian’s legs are considerably longer than mine. I let him spoil us.   
  
Travel By Ziegler had agreed to underwrite the Hotel Mirabeau’s seven-day package, complete with lift tickets, which was pretty damn generous of them. However, Brian would only go the week of 27 December to 2 January 2014. Surprise, surprise, that’s a black-out week for the Hotel’s packages. Brian’s not the only workaholic who will only take off the week between Christmas and New Year’s.   
  
Brian got Cynthia on the horn to Ziegler, his credit card in hand, and – for a stiff penalty – got us accommodations at the Mirabeau for the week he wanted, with a five-day lift ticket package. The hotel sounds charming and offers a lot of amenities, among them a view of the Matterhorn from our window.   
  
Even though we’re now less than an hour away from Newark Airport, barely over the ocean, Brian is already asleep. Again, not even the hint of a suggestion that a short session in a bathroom and a relaxing blowjob would put him to sleep as effectively as the two Lunesta he took with a Jim Beam.   
  
I’m getting worried, mainly because I can’t think of anything that’s happened to make him act like this. We haven’t even had a decent fight and, anyway, in the past those have just resulted in hot make-up sex. Maybe he’s not feeling well? That doesn’t seem likely. Think of your stoic, Spartan-type, suffering in silence, and then think of its complete opposite. That’s Brian. He’s the compleat drama queen when he doesn’t feel well. I’d know if he were ill. So what is the problem?   
  
**27 December 2013**  
Friday morning, on Swiss Rail  
  
We landed in Geneva about five minutes early, at 8:05 A.M. their time, or a little after 2:00 A.M. Eastern Standard Time. I followed Brian’s example last night and – with pharmacological assistance – fell asleep around 10:30 EST. So I only got about three hours sleep, but so far I feel fine. Brian got closer to five hours, so he’s in good shape.   
  
The transfer to the train for Zermatt was as smooth as butter. The station is underneath the airport terminal – we never had to go outside – so as soon as we cleared customs and picked up our luggage, we went directly to the train station and checked our luggage through to Zermatt. We have to change at somewhere called Visp (definitely not world-famous!) and take a cog-wheel train up the mountain to Zermatt. Altogether the trip takes around six hours: four hours from Geneva to Visp, then another hour and a half on the cog railroad.   
  
At least with Swiss Rail, when the timetable says the trip will take four hours, it takes four hours. The countryside is beautiful, the train is sparkling clean, and the conductor pushed a food trolley down the aisle selling breakfast-type snacks. We both had excellent coffee and a fresh, chewy roll with butter. All of which make a four-hour trip more bearable.  
  
Once again, Brian made no attempt to lure me into a bathroom stall in the airport. True, we wanted to get on the earliest train possible, but still…. By my calculations it was about 24 hours since we’d fucked, and I was getting seriously horny. So after we got settled in our seats, and the train was clickety-clacking along between stops, I took the initiative. I said, “I’m going to the lavatory at the end of the car.” I raised my eyebrows inquiringly.   
  
Brian said, “And you want…?”  
  
I said, “See ya!”   
  
I patted the pockets of my jeans as I went down the aisle, and yes, I had condoms and lube on me. Wouldn’t need a condom, but I expected to need some lube. The lavatory was empty…so annoying having to wait for a stall when you want to fuck…so I went in and pushed the door almost shut. Minutes later Brian joined me. I said, “I was beginning to worry about you.”  
  
Brian gave me a look.  
  
“It’s been 24 hours since we fucked. I was afraid you were sick.” I gave him one of his own patented smirks.  
  
Brian was already unzipping as I dropped to my knees. I unzipped, too, and got out the lube. Giving Brian head turns me on. I know exactly what he’s feeling…my mouth all warm and wet and moving on his dick…and every reaction of his…his smallest movement, a barely audible grunt…goes straight to my dick. This time was no exception.   
  
I cupped his balls in one hand and rolled them gently. He pushed his jeans down farther and spread his legs for me. One hand dropped to my head, and he ran his fingers through my hair. I looked up and smiled before lifting his dick to my lips and taking it into my mouth. It felt good, filling my mouth, firming up as I played with it. I pressed on his perineum, and the muscles in Brian’s thighs tensed and relaxed, tensed and relaxed against my shoulders. He made a small sound in the back of his throat. I slid my mouth up his dick and tasted pre-come. Yes!   
  
I traced a path from Brian’s balls to his asshole and was rewarded by a growl. I teased his anus, not pushing in, just circling it, and he tightened his grip on my head. I moved my head more rapidly, increasing the friction in response to his reactions, and then he was coming, shooting down my throat and groaning.   
  
I grabbed the lube and slicked my hand, then started jerking myself off. God, I was so ready, already dripping pre-come. I was watching myself, watching my dick get even harder, even more engorged, as I pumped into to my clenched fist. “God,” Brian said, “you look so hot.” That did it. I shot against the wall.   
  
Brian handed me a large wad of toilet tissue, I cleaned myself up, and he helped me to my feet. I was still a little shaky. “Are you going to clean the wall?” he asked. I reached out with one foot and shoved the trashcan so that it mostly hid the damage. “No,” I said.   
  
“A souvenir of our visit,” Brian said.   
  
Brian left, I washed my hands, and then I went back to our seat, too. I think I may take a nap now, even though I will miss some alpine scenery. I feel relaxed and relieved that we are back to normal.  
  
I hope.  



	38. Chapter 38

  
Author's notes:   


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Date: December 27, 2013  
Place: Zermatt, Switzerland  
Time: I have no fucking clue  
  
My sleep pattern is totally fucked. We arrived in Zermatt around 3 or 4 this afternoon, Swiss time. I slept well on the plane but since then I’ve just been dozing on and off. Now Justin’s taking a catnap before we hit the bars and I’m wide-awake. It’s probably best I force myself to stay this way until a reasonable hour, or I’ll be fighting the clock for the rest of our trip. That makes this as good a time as any to organize my thoughts, although in my present state, organization may be way too much to hope for.   
  
1.) Justin’s no idiot, he knows something’s up. In what felt like the middle of the fucking night, he invited me into the bathroom of the train for what turned out to be an early morning blowjob. He was concerned I hadn’t taken the initiative to do it first. I guess I am more transparent than I thought. I’ve got to get my shit together. I’m not going to ruin this trip for him. There will be plenty of time to redefine our relationship once we get back to Pittsburgh.  
  
2.) The first interesting thing I learned about Zermatt? Automobiles are banned here. A fact Justin conveniently left out when he was extolling the virtues of this remote mountain village. The only means of transportation besides your feet are these electric, mass transit (God, how I deplore public transportation!) shuttles or horse-drawn carriages. No fucking shit!   
  
3.) Tourist tidbit number two…there are no gay bars in the entire god damn town. How do I know this? I asked the concierge at our hotel. He appeared to be at least 70 but in remarkable shape. Everyone here looks incredibly healthy. As soon as we completed our check in, I approached his desk; he smiled, extended his hand, and greeted me with perfect English.   
  
“Mr. Kinney, suite 402, how may I be of assistance?”  
  
I don’t know how this man knew my name since he was at least 20 yards from the main desk. “I was wondering where we could find a gay bar.” I asked, matter-of-factly.  
  
“Oh, no problem at all” He responded cheerfully as he waved his arm as if to introduce us to a large group of people, “You will have no trouble. All of our bars are very friendly places.”  
  
Apparently his command of English wasn’t as great as I had first anticipated.

“No,” I corrected him, “not gay as in happy…,” I took a step back and pulled Justin away from the display of ‘Things to do in Zermatt’ informational cards before I continued, “gay as in, 'He’s a homosexual.'”  
  
Justin was now standing in front of me looking a bit bewildered as our concierge zeroed in on him and became quite pensive. Bringing his hand to his chin, he stroked it a couple times and looked down. I think he was really trying to recollect just where he might have seen two or more flamboyant men drinking together but was drawing a blank. And then something I certainly wasn’t prepared for became evident. While Europeans overall tend to be quite blasé regarding the whole homosexual thing, those in Zermatt, it appears, have been sheltered from far more than simply automobiles. Being gay and out of the closet is actually quite a novelty here. Share your secret with the hotel’s concierge, and you better be prepared for an hour-long conversation about it.   
  
4.) A mad Justin is extremely hot. Not that this situation needs any documenting, it’s just that I always want to remember the look on his face when he finally made it up to our room. I was back to dozing on a nifty leather reclining chair in our suite when he literally slapped me awake.   
  
“What the fuck, Justin?” Once my eyes focused, I could see he was livid. The look of his hair told me he had been running his hands through it like he always does when he’s exasperated. He leaned over and pulled on the back of the chair, pitching it and me forward.   
  
“You told that man I was gay and now he knows all about me; when I figured it out, how my parents reacted to it, even about losing my virginity in the 10th grade!”  
  
“And that’s my fault?”  
  
He wedged himself between my knees. “You left me there and he just kept talking,…asking me questions…he was so nice.”  
  
“You could have walked away. I did.”  
  
Justin was unbuttoning his shirt and I could see his nipples were hard. “No shit, you asshole.”   
  
I looked up at him with what I hoped was an innocent gaze, “You deserved it for not telling me there weren’t any cars.”  
  
He was undoing his belt. “Oh yeah?” he questioned, “Well, after that, you deserve to have my dick in your mouth.”  
  
I’d never tell Justin, but if sucking him off is his idea of punishment, give me 10-years-to-life. I had his pants around his ankles in a matter of seconds and pulled him in hard. There wasn’t much talking after that but I have to admit, Justin got the last laugh. Slumped over with his hands on the back of the chair after he came, I asked if this had made up for leaving him in the lobby.  
  
“Oh, I already took care of that,” he reassured me. “Marcel - that’s his name, by the way - is very concerned about all the trouble you’re having getting it up.”  
  
Touché, Justin, touché.   
  
5.) Even though there are no actual gay bars in Zermatt, that is not to say there are no gays. Ever the resourceful economist, anxious to save what was quickly turning into a train wreck of a vacation, Justin laid it out simply. “Look,” he said pointing to some statistics only locals find interesting about their city, “at any given time, you will find an average of 60,000 visitors here. Applying the ever-popular one in ten theory, 6,000 of them would be homos - and that doesn’t even include the local boys. Of the 6,000, we can assume half are lesbians, leaving us to enjoy the company of 3,000 international gay men. Quit your bitching.”   
  
Three thousand? Doubtful. Certainly at least 50% of these men can be given credit for checking out the venue before they booked their travel. That would cut the current gay male population of Zermatt down to a mere 1,500. Still, that’s 1,500 horny, gay, car-less men wandering around the quaint streets of Zermatt just as dazed and confused as I am. I’ve decided after Justin wakes, it’s our duty to find them.  



	39. Chapter 39

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

**31 December 2013; 8:00 a.m.  
Tuesday, Zermatt, Switzerland**

The last day of 2013. It’s been a good year for me, a year involving a lot of positive changes. And this vacation is ending on an up note.

You know, for the last month or so, I’ve had the feeling that something was bothering Brian. That feeling came to a head (no pun intended!) during our trip here, but he’s been much more his old self since we got to Zermatt and settled in. He is not a good traveler. He travels quite a bit on behalf of Kinnetik, and maybe he’s come to equate travel with work, not play. Or maybe he just needed to decompress from his usual stresses. Who knows? With Brian you can only guess. He’ll never tell you.

Our weather has been perfect. We were able to ski all four days – Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday – and it looks like our luck will hold through tomorrow. When I was growing up, my family went skiing in the Laurel Highlands almost every year, at least once, but the Laurel Highlands (altitude = 2,600 feet) and Zermatt, Switzerland, (altitude = 10,000 feet plus) have very little in common. Brian has only skied once, when he was in college, and he’s never had a lesson. Of course, he’s a natural athlete, but I still insisted we take a lesson the first day, pleading rustiness on my part and ignorance on his (though maybe I didn’t phrase it quite that way).

I knew he’d catch on quickly, and he did. On Friday and Saturday we stuck to the baby slopes. In Zermatt, the baby slopes are straight runs down the mountain, but lo-ong runs. And through breath-taking scenery. We could – and did, on Saturday - ski from the top of the mountain right down into Zermatt.

By Sunday we were ready to take on the Intermediate trails. Our first run was down the glacier into Italy. We had lunch in Cervinia, Italy. I had the most amazing sandwich – wonderful cheese on huge slabs of buttered bread, baked in a deep dish – which I shared with Brian. I can also say he’s now fucked me in three countries, thanks to a convenient restroom in the trattoria in Cervinia. Yesterday we took the lift to Schwarzee – oh, my God, the views – and skied back to Zermatt via the mountain restaurant at Stafelalp.

We’ve been napping every afternoon so that we’re in shape for clubbing after dinner. While there aren’t any bars billing themselves as gay, there are gay boyz aplenty. Brian showed me several secluded nooks where a guy can get his dick sucked if he finds somebody willing to drop to the cold ground for the privilege. That was me on my knees once, but only once. Any other times, I was standing.

Last night we went to Le Village Dance Club, but Brian likes The Broken better and wants to welcome 2014 there. I like The Broken, too – lots of hot guys, lots of thumpa-thumpa, great DJ – but tonight, still unbeknownst to Brian, we are going to The Pink.

Let me rephrase that: tonight I _must_ go to Pink. Nick Sutter is doing two shows, tonight only - 10:30 p.m. and 12:30 a.m. - and I have tickets to both. He is so hot and such a tunesmith. Brian, of course, is uninterested in Nick, doesn’t know his amazing music, and doesn’t care how hot he is since he’s straight. In Brian’s worldview, hot plus unavailable equal boring. He may change his mind when he sees Nick…I’m not all that sure Nick is unavailable. For a straight guy, he sure has a lot of gay mannerisms.

More later.

**1 January 2014, 9:45 a.m.**  
Happy New Year!

2013 is going to be a hard one to beat, but 2014 is off to a good start.

I knew Nick Sutter was touring Europe before we won this trip, so as soon as we won, I went right to his web site and – yes! – there it was: two performances in an intimate setting. I clicked the “Purchase” button immediately and got tickets to both shows. Did I tell Brian? Are you crazy? I knew it wasn’t going to be his preferred way to end one year and start the next, but I didn’t see why we couldn’t do both – fuck and see my Nicky.

Brian wanted to go to The Broken before Nick’s first show, but at 10:00 p.m. we were just finishing a light dinner so we had to scramble to get to The Pink in time. After we got seated – we had pretty good seats for both shows, but the 10:30 seating was a little bit better – Brian offered me a tab of E. I shook my head No. “You know the effect E has on me.” E reduces my libido. It doesn’t seem to affect Brian’s libido at all. To please him and to shut him up, I said, “I’ll take a tab before the second show.”

Then Nick came on. The stage is small, and the piano, with Nick’s accompanist, took up most of it. The people closest to the stage could have touched him as he moved around, and even we – midway back in the room - were close enough to see every expression that flitted across his face… and Nick Sutter has _such_ an expressive face. Of course, he sang most of my favorite songs, but “Whispering Gallery” and “Back to the Beginning” were particular standouts.

Midway through the performance, Brian leaned close and muttered, “He’s _straight_?”

I gave him my best wide-eyed, innocent stare and said, “Of course. All his songs are about girls.”

“Including the line, ‘giving me head on the unmade bed?’”

“Yes, Brian, as revolting as it may seem to you, women do give head. Besides, it’s an old Leonard Cohen cover, and as far as I know Cohen was het.”

Nick started singing, “Queen’s Play,” and Brian just gave me a leer. O.K., that is a pretty gay song.

As he was nearing the end of his last song, Brian hissed, “C’mon.”

I said, “No. Where do you want to go? I want to stay to the end.”

“I want to be fucking you at midnight…you know, end 2013 fucking and start 2014 still fucking. We’ve only got about five minutes before midnight.”

I grabbed my coat and followed him. He headed for The Pink’s exit to the street. I grabbed his arm. “Hey. Where are you going?” I jerked my head in the direction of the lobby. “That’s the way to the restrooms.”

“Nope. I want our fuck to take place under the starry Swiss sky.” He grabbed my arm and pulled me through the door.

“Jesus, Brian, it’s cold out here.”

“It’s not that bad. There’s no wind, and I’ve found the perfect place anyway. It’s a sheltered entryway, very private.”

I followed him around a couple of quick corners. He said, “There it is.” I looked where he was pointing, and there was a door set deep into a stone archway. As I looked a door down the street opened, and people poured out, swinging noise-makers and laughing and calling to each other. Immediately behind us another crowd burst into the street while Brian’s targeted door also opened and half a dozen people spilled out.

I turned to the nearest guy and asked, “What’s up?”

He looked surprised but said, in a British accent, “Fireworks at midnight, you know.”

No, I didn’t know and it was obvious from the look on Brian’s face that he hadn’t known either. I looked at him and raised my eyebrows inquiringly.

He said, “It’s back to the bathroom.” He looked disappointed.

I wasn’t. After all, it hadn’t been his bare ass that was going to be hanging out in 20°F weather under his starry Swiss sky.

The bathroom was deserted, so we took the stall furthest from the door, next to the wall. As soon as he turned the lock, Brian pushed me up against the wall and kissed me, a long, sweet kiss. When he pulled back, we looked at each other and smiled, and then we both started working on our pants. Sure enough, Brian was just pushing in as the church bells started pealing and the first fireworks went off. I turned my head and murmured, “Great timing.”

Brian grunted. “Of course.”

I bent a little more at the waist and gave myself up to the sensations of being wanted and filled and taken. He’d never say it, but I know that Brian needs me. We are like two puzzle parts that fit together with a click of completion, and never is the click more audible than when we fuck.

I adore fireworks so, as much as I love being fucked by Brian, I was happy that we made it to the street in time for the grand finale. What an appropriate ending, I thought, for what has been, up to this point, the best year of my life.

Nicky’s second performance seemed to simply flow through me, thanks to Brian’s tab of Extasy. You haven’t experienced “Back to the Beginning” until you’ve felt it sitting in a jazz club with E turning every cell in your body in to a receptor.

After the concert, we went to The Broken for an hour or so. The place was still packed, the DJ was playing the kind of music that just makes you have to move, so we danced and got all sweaty again. Around 3:00 a.m., Brian said, “Let’s go back and go to bed.” I was ready. All that exercise, on the mountain and off.

We walked through the streets, still busy with partiers, and I said, “It’s been a wonderful week. I’ve never forget this trip.”

Brian said, “It’s not over yet.”

“Just the rest of today.”

I was asleep approximately two minutes after I pulled the duvet over my shoulder. It felt like only two more minutes had gone by when a tiny pinging woke me up. It was still dark. I slitted one eye open and looked at the travel clock on my bedside table. 5:56 a.m. _What the fuck?_

It took me half a minute to identify the annoying pinging, and then I rolled over and looked up at Brian. He was lying on his side, propped up on one elbow, his hand cradling his cheek. “Jesus, Brian! Your stupid watch alarm is going off.”

He sat up a little more, turned off the alarm, took his watch off, and put it on his bedside table. Brian never sleeps with his watch on. “Happy New Year,” he said.

I yawned. “I remember. I wasn’t _that_ high.”

He wrapped his hand around my neck, turned my face toward him, and held me still. “Now we’re celebrating the real New Year. In…,” he squinted at the travel clock…”four more minutes it will be 2014 in Pittsburgh. We’re starting this year right, with my dick up your ass.”

Oh, my God, Brian Kinney being sentimental. But it was _my_ ass, so I said, “You’re sure this is our final celebration? You aren’t going to wake me up in another three hours so we can celebrate 2014’s arrival in L.A.?”

He wrapped his arm around me, pulled me halfway under him, and kissed me. His lips were warm and soft, and his tongue probed my mouth. I wriggled against him, lining up our cocks so that they touched. Brian twisted away from me for a moment. When he turned back, he reached between us and wrapped his hand, slick with lube, around both of our dicks.

I closed my eyes and sighed, relaxing into Brian’s heat. God, that felt good…both of us still soft, both hardening. I squirmed again, and he threw his leg over mine and held me still. I thought, _I’ll bet Brian would hate it if I told him how safe this makes me feel, how sheltered and protected._ Some thoughts I don’t share.

He started rocking slowly against me, sliding his dick up mine just a few millimeters, then down, then up again. I tried to move, tried to regain a little control, but he drew me further under him and wrapped his leg more securely around mine. I did what little I could, tightening every muscle below my waist so that my dick moved fractionally, too.

Little by little, Brian increased the tempo of his movements, until I was moaning and starting to curse. I could feel my orgasm building, but he wasn’t moving hard enough or applying enough pressure to allow me to come. “Jesus, Brian, I can’t stand it…you’re driving me c…crazy. Ah, no...no…harder. Oh, dammit…damn…damn….”

Brian chuckled…the bastard actually laughed…and loomed over me. He grabbed a pillow and shoved it under my hips. I wrapped my legs around his waist and arched up toward him, my dick dripping on my stomach. He had a condom in his hand, I heard the packet tear, then first one lubed finger, then two, were in my ass. “Brian, come on. I’m ready, dammit.”

“How ready? Tell me how ready.”

I arched up toward him, trying to rub my dick against his body. It was hopeless. “I can’t stand it. Please. Put it in me…now.” I felt the head of his dick rub against my hole. “More. _Brian._ Yes. Like that…yes…yes.” He was in, and I was pressing down hard, and he was in further, and it felt so good. Two more strokes and he was in up to his balls.

He pulled back a little and hit my sweet spot and I yowled. He hit it again and a third time, and then I lost count. I reached for my dick before it burst. Brian’s hand was faster, and I yelled when I felt his warmth enclose it. “Happy New Year, Justin,” he whispered, his breath tickling my ear, and I came and came and came.  



	40. Chapter 40

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

Friday, January 3, 2014  
8:40 P.M. - Home

I have a fucking chair in my shower. Problem is; it’s not a _fucking_ chair. It’s this bench with a plastic seat and tubular aluminum legs. Justin rigged it up so I can shower while keeping my right ankle out the door.

As I stated earlier, I should have trusted my initial instincts. There are damn good reasons why I don’t routinely go to isolated mountain resorts with no reasonable means of transportation, which are located on the other side of the fucking world.

So far 2014 has the makings of yet another banner year. It started out okay. I fucked Justin into oblivion throughout the night, and we woke to yet another startlingly perfect day in Zermatt. After breakfast we decided to make one more easy run down the mountain before we checked the skis back in.

We were still pretty beat from pushing ourselves on Monday, so we opted to go back to the novice slopes. They run fairly straight and end up right in town. That little detail is the only positive justification I have found for the absence of motorized traffic around town. Dodging uncoordinated idiots careening down a mountainside with two sticks strapped to their feet is one thing. Dodging those same idiots who are behind the wheel of heavy machinery would be an entirely different matter.

We finished up our skiing around 2 P.M. and grabbed a quick lunch in one of the local taverns. As a result of leaving Justin in the lobby with Marcel on our arrival, he was now the proud owner of a shit load of tourist information cards. And, much to my dismay, he was bound and determined to experience all Zermatt had to offer before we boarded our plane on Thursday.

Have I ever mentioned that he’s a museum-aholic? Get him within two hundred yards of one and it’s like there’s this magnetic force drawing him in. The list of places he will visit is sad. Did you know there is a Museum of Questionable Medical Devices in St. Paul, Minnesota, and one of Pez Memorabilia in Burlingame, California? There is. Just ask Justin. He’s been to both as a result of the ‘more money than brains’ philosophy at the Craig Taylor School of Child Rearing.

So, after visiting such historic places as those, there was nothing short of Nick Sutter getting down on his knees in the town square and giving Justin a blowjob that would have kept him out of the official Matterhorn Museum in Zermatt. Had I known what was in store for me, I would have happily tracked little Nicky down and handed him the title to my Jag for the honor of letting me watch.

The Matterhorn Museum, it turns out, is an obstacle course of Olympic proportions. It is presented as an archaeological dig, consisting of a lost village that is supposed to be in the process of being uncovered. It is billed as Zermatt in the 19th century – Zermatlantis if you will. To give you an idea of just how excited this made Justin, all you have to do is read the opening paragraph to the brochure we were handed after we paid our entrance fee.

_Museum visitors move through this lost village and encounter 14 houses, which you can actually walk through, that present the area's history: The poverty of old Zermatt; the careful cultivation of the barren soil; the power of the church, the powerlessness compared to the forces of nature; the prospering of the tourism industry that changed the whole mountain life in the summertime; the first alpinists who conquered the mountains and risked life and limb; the spectacular accidents that laid the foundations for legends and Zermatt's international character; the clever people of Valais who built hotels and greeted their guests in perfect English._ (Marcel’s secret is out.) _And at the centre of it all: the Matterhorn!_

I think Justin was hard by the time he time he read about the cultivation of the barren soil. Throughout this interactive cluster fuck, one must walk along metal walkways, scaffolding, ladders and stairs that wind their way through the sunken village. Can I say lawsuit waiting to happen for the clever yet naïve people of Valais? While they are in incredibly good shape, the same cannot be said for each of the tourists who visit this region.

And it most certainly was not the case for the clumsy, overweight man in front of me who lost his footing on the ladder. He slipped off the rung and all of his weight, which I would estimate to be nearly 300 pounds, came down on my right ankle, taking me to my knees.

Justin, who had been a few feet behind me, rushed up as Big Foot apologized profusely.

“Oh my god! Brian! Are you okay?”

I looked up at him, swallowed and grunted through clenched teeth, “Just get me outta here.”

Collecting myself and muttering to the man and his now-concerned wife that I would be fine, I draped my left arm over Justin’s shoulder and attempted to hobble over to a rough-hewn bench one of those crazy alpinists had built outside of house number 12. I made it to my feet okay but the instant I tried to place any weight on my right foot, shooting pains ran up and down my leg.

“Christ!” I yelped as I dug my fingers into Justin’s shoulder.

“Just lean on me and hop over here, Brian,” he advised as he lugged me over to the bench. The couple - whom we had now come to know as Mr. and Mrs. Moiré - insisted they go find a doctor while Justin waited with me. Seemed like a good idea at the time.

“Here, Brian,” Justin suggested, “put your leg up to try and keep the swelling down. I’m going to run to the snack bar by the gift shop to see if I can get some ice.”

“I don’t want ice, Justin. I just want to get out of here.”

Placing his hands on his hips, he got what can best be described as that haughty, condescending, grade school librarian tone with me. “And where do you suggest we go?”

I gave him a look that shot daggers, “Home would be nice.”

Understanding that I was fully incapacitated, Justin’s survival instinct kicked in. He backed away slowly, and when he was further than my arm could reach, he said, “Well, there’s only one way to get there, and that’s not going to happen until you see a doctor. So buck up. I’m going to get ice.” He turned on his heel, and the little fucker was gone. There I sat in the middle of Switzerland’s answer to Knott’s Berry Farm, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

After that, several hours passed with no further sign of him, a medical professional, or the Moiré’s. Just when I was ready to begin crawling, Justin reappeared, proudly producing two one gallon zip-lock bags of crushed ice along with his signature smile.

“Jesus Christ, Justin, where the fuck did you go to get that? Amsterdam?”

“I went to the snack bar like I said I was going to. I’ve been gone…” he paused to look at his watch, “eleven minutes, Brian.”

He gently lifted my leg and laid one bag under my ankle, then just as gingerly placed the second around the top. “How are you doing? Do you think it’s broken?”

“I have no clue, Justin. But one thing I know is it hurts like a motherfucker.”

I was turned to the side so I could stretch my leg across the bench. Justin wiggled his way into the gap next to my back, placed his hands on my shoulders and began to rub.

“I’m sorry, Brian.”

“For what?”

“For making you come here. If I hadn’t insisted this wouldn’t have happened.”

“Sorry’s bullshit. You didn’t do this. That fat cocksucker did, and speaking of, where the hell is he anyway?”

Justin was silent but continued to rub. After another excruciatingly long time he finally spoke.

“It’s been nearly a half hour since they left, Brian. I don’t think they’re coming back. I’m going to go up to the front office and get someone who can help us.”

Once again I was at his mercy, but this time I couldn’t argue. I was beginning to feel like part of the permanent exhibit. All I could do was give him a resigned nod and mutter a feeble, “Hurry.”

Upon his next return, he was accompanied by an attractive young man pushing an empty wheelchair.

“No fucking way, Justin.”

He was shaking his head matter-of-factly. “Don’t argue with me, Brian. You can’t walk and we can’t carry you. Your horse and carriage are waiting.”

I was backed into a corner, and all I could do was attempt to busy my mind with how I would make him pay once this ordeal was over. Even that was difficult to concentrate on as every bump we rolled over made my ankle feel like the rusty knife that had been plunged into it was being forced to rotate within my joint. The wheelchair ride was nothing, however, compared to the thrill of being drawn across cobblestone streets on a four-wheeled trampoline.

“Justin, this hurts!”

“I know,” he attempted to soothe me, “I know…we’ll be there soon.”

“There? Where is there?”

He produced a map with several red crosses printed on it. “These are the Emergency Medical Centers, Brian. He’s taking us to one of them.”

There were five situated through out the village and two, labeled C and D, looked to be just a stone’s throw from the Museum. That offered some comfort. However, we didn’t seem to be headed in the direction of either of them, and there was a large black circle drawn around cross B; the one not only furthest away but also requiring the most twists and turns to get there.

I looked at him and demanded, “Where are we going, Justin?”

He scrunched up his face like you would if you saw a punch coming and hesitantly pointed to B.

“What the fuck?!”

“They aren’t all open all the time,” he stated in a rather desperate tone. “I’m told this is the one we go to today.”

“Holy Jesus,” my head was in my hands now. “And what are they gonna do when we get there?”

“I imagine determine if it’s broken or not,” he attempted to reassure me, “and set it if it is.”

“While they ply me with cheap whiskey and I bite on a rag? Fuck, No! Just get me on a plane and I’ll deal with this when I get home!” I’m pretty sure I yelled that part.

“Brian,” Justin reprimanded, “even though you’re getting there by horse and buggy, this is not the wild, wild west. Switzerland is a modern country with all the same medical advances as the United States.”

“Yeah, right. Tell that to Emergency Clinics C and D!”

It was broken…of course it was broken. Justin was right about the modern medical advances however. Switzerland has access to the same wonder drugs as we do in the States. Sometime next week Dr. Jonas Acklin should receive a token of my appreciation for his liberal hand in doling them out.

The trip home was one of the most pleasant and hallucinogenic plane rides I’ve ever been on, splint or no splint. Since I was not in any shape at the time to comprehend, Dr. Acklin explained to Justin that a temporary splint is routinely put on for a couple of days until the swelling goes down. The cast, if there needs to be one, comes on Monday. Regardless, I will probably be on crutches for at least six weeks.

That’s six weeks of taxis, six weeks of partial showers, six weeks of suit pants that don’t fit right, six weeks of depending on others and it fucking sucks. One thing I know is it’s not going to fall to Justin. I’ll hire a male nurse if I have to. He’s at Ben and Michael’s tonight without me.

We’re ready for some time apart.


	41. Chapter 41

  
Author's notes:   


* * *

  
**4 January 2014**  
Saturday, 9:06 a.m.

Lots of people break bones skiing. Only Brian would go skiing and break his ankle in a museum. I gather from Dr. Jonas Acklin in Zermatt that it’s a pretty severe break, too. I know it’s very painful. Brian lost all his color on that hellacious trip between the museum and the Emergency Medical Center. A couple of times I thought he was going to pass out.

Of course, the Med Center was set up for breaks, and the doctor and the technician knew just how to handle him to minimize the pain. Most importantly, to Brian at least, they were well stocked with plenty of good, strong meds. “You will just have to make sure he doesn’t over-dose but he should take enough to stay comfortable,” Dr. Acklin said.

“Don’t worry,” I said. “If there’s anyone in this world who knows how much he can tolerate, it’s me. I’ll be careful but I’ll make sure he’s as comfortable as possible.”

The real lifesaver was Air Zermatt. Instead of having to deal with Brian as we fought our way on and off the cog-railroad and Swiss Rail, the helicopter set us down in the Geneva International’s parking lot where we were met by a wheelchair. Dr. Acklin accompanied us, saying it was standard practice, and he said that whatever charges our health and travel insurance failed to cover would be forgiven. Brian promised to make a contribution to Air Zermatt anyway, and I’ll bet it’s substantial.

The trip from Geneva to Pittsburgh went smoothly. Brian dozed through most of it, and I slept for a couple of hours, too. I was dreading the transfer at Newark, but I scheduled his meds so that they were at maximum strength then, and it went all right. I had called Cynthia from Geneva and had her arrange for our flight to be met in Pittsburgh by an ambulance service and, with her usual efficiency, she did. The ambulance attendants delivered Brian right to the loft without taking him off the gurney. They helped him into bed and left.

By this time Brian was getting annoyed with playing the invalid. I had also asked Cynthia to order a wheelchair for him, and it was sitting in the landing when we got home. Brian said, “If you think I’m using that fucking thing, think again.”

I didn’t answer, just called our VoiceMail. Sure enough, Cynthia had called Dr. Narayan, he had recommended an orthopedist named Levy, and she had made an appointment for 10:00 a.m. Monday.

I told Brian all this and said, “I think it would be good idea if you stayed off the crutches as much as possible until Monday morning. Once you see the orthopedist and he casts your ankle….”

“They don’t always put casts on breaks anymore, Justin.”

“O.K. Whatever. I think you should be very cautious. You don’t want to hurt it any more and you certainly don’t want to have to go to the E.R. I know I don’t want to take you.”

He looked annoyed, but he didn’t argue. He said, “I have to piss.”

I got his crutches and gave him a shoulder to hang on to while he got them under his arms. Once again, his natural athleticism helped him navigate to the bathroom, take care of business, and make it back to the bed. By the time I got him settled, he was looking seriously perturbed. He said, “Aren’t you due at Michael and Ben’s for dinner about now?”

I was. It was Friday night, and Ted and Blake were going to be there and maybe Emmett. “I hate to leave you on your own when we’ve just gotten home.”

“I’ll be all right, Mother. Run along and go play with your friends.”

I hesitated. “I’ll pick up some Thai for you before I go.”

“I’ll be fine. I won’t starve. I won’t starve if I don’t eat anything until breakfast, for that matter. Now get the fuck out of here.”

I made him an ice pack for the ankle, filled a carafe with water, put it and a paper cup with enough meds in it to hold him until midnight (not that I expected to be that late) on his bedside table and looked around to see what else I should do before I left. My eye lit on his laptop, and I brought it over and plugged it in for him. He grunted when I put it on the bed next to him – God forbid he should say ‘Thank you’ – but he looked more cheerful.

I said, “I’ll see you later.”

He said, “Don’t bother. I’ll be fine by myself.”

I ignored that bit of nonsense and left.

With Michael, I’ve found that the best way to handle him is to keep him in the loop, and I knew he’d want the full story. It was important that he understand that for the next few days, at least, Brian wasn’t going to be in the mood to socialize. I think Michael got it pretty quickly. “You should have known him when he had the surgery on his testicle and the chemo afterwards. A bear. A fucking bear! Yeah, I’ll wait until after he’s seen the orthopedist, and then maybe I’ll come over with some recreational drugs and cheer him up.” I thought, _I’ll deal with that when the time comes._

I left as soon as dinner was over; I stopped on the way home and picked up a quart of hot and sour soup and a container of shrimp papaya salad. I figured that, with his life out of control, Brian would appreciate some low calorie food.

He was asleep again when I got to the loft, and even the grating of the door didn’t wake him up. I put in a load of laundry and was sorting a week’s worth of mail when he woke up. “What the hell are you doing here?” he said.

Definitely not handling being incapacitated well. I said, “I brought you back some Thai food.” I figured he had to be hungry. He‘d hardly eaten since the accident.

“Don’t try to change the subject. Why the fuck are you here?”

“I’m here because you have a broken ankle, and you are on some pretty heavy pain medication. You shouldn’t be alone.” I walked to the foot of the stairs and looked up at him. As I watched, he dragged himself up the bed until he was propped against the headboard. He looked uncomfortable.

“I don’t need a baby-sitter. I have a broken ankle, but I’m not helpless. Go the fuck home and crawl into your own bed. I’ll manage.”

Cracks like that leave me fighting myself. Part of me wants to ignore the bluster and cut to the real issue, and part of me wants to do exactly what he’s said and leave him to stew in his own juice. The latter didn’t seem appropriate in this case since he was…whether he wanted to admit it or not…virtually helpless. I said, “Don’t be an idiot, Brian. If you hadn’t broken that ankle, I’d probably be sleeping here anyway.”

“Or not.” His tone of voice was taunting. I felt like we were in the sixth grade on the playground.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Just what I said. We spent the last week together; maybe it’s time to be apart for awhile.”

“Awhile? Would that be ‘awhile’ as in a night or two or ‘awhile’ as in, ‘Don’t call me, I’ll call you?’ What the fuck is up with you, Brian? You were acting strange before the trip, but I chalked that up to stress and exhaustion. While we were there, things seemed to be back to normal, but now…I just don’t know what kind of bug you have up your ass.”

“Come on, Justin. You’re a smart boy. Don’t you have some place you need to be by Monday? Boston? Miami? Paris?”

“Oh, is that it?! You have a problem with my work?”

“No, I don’t have a problem with it. You’re a big success and that’s great. I’m thrilled for you. But now it’s time for you go do your work, and I’ll stay here and do mine, okay?”

“Brian, you’re being ridiculous! My work is here too.”

“No, Justin. Your work is everywhere. Just ask Barnes and Noble.”

“Oh Jesus, you are such an insufferable asshole. Yes, I currently have a best selling book; yes, I have to travel to promote it; yes, I plan to continue writing. BUT, first and foremost, I am a Associate Professor at Carnegie Mellon University.”

Brian stared at me..

“Fuck, did you think I was going to give that up? What, just continue to pull books that people actually want to read out of my ass and travel the world for the rest of my life?”

“You’re good. Don’t tie yourself down. Be footloose and fancy free for once, while you have a chance.”

I stared at him. I had the feeling we were approaching the kernel of the nut that is Brian Kinney. “You think I should be free to fuck my way around the world?”

“Don’t exaggerate. What I’m saying is, you’ve gone from one settled relationship to the next, since before you left your mommy. You qualify as a serial monogamist. Well, you aren’t adding me to your string of hubbies.”

We Taylors are quiet, polite WASPs whose idea of a fight is sarcastic, cutting remarks spoken in icy tones. Nobody, but nobody, has ever gotten me as screamingly, shriekingly angry as Brian Kinney. I was literally seeing him through a red haze.

“I am not tying myself down,” I yelled. “And if I am a serial monogamist, you know what? It’s because I like living with someone. I like sharing my life. Right now….” I paused to calm down a little. I knew what I wanted to say, but even with a splint on his ankle I believe Brian is strong enough to fly out of that bed and shove me out the door, so I lowered my voice, tempered my reply, and continued, “Right now what I want is to be here…with you.”

He looked at me expressionessly, “Right. Until you decide to leave, like you left Bozo and Buddy and Bobby.”

That stopped me cold. I knew I was hearing the truth, the way Brian never tells it. Fuck. He’s sure I’ll leave him and that it’ll hurt like hell. Perhaps he was intentionally telling me how he felt, perhaps it was the meds talking. It didn’t matter. For a moment I was Dorothy in the Emerald City, and the curtain had been swept away. I could see, however briefly, the man working the machinery.

I knew what my answer was, and I was sure Brian wasn’t going to like it. I walked up the three steps to the bed. Standing next to it, I bent down and placed my right hand on the mattress next to Brian. Our faces were inches apart. If I was going to say this, I needed to see his eyes, needed to see his reaction.

“The difference between you and Chris and Jerry and Robert? None of them were the love of my life – you are.”

For a long moment, a look of total shock was plain on Brian’s face, then his control kicked in. I could practically see his synapses firing as he searched for a hurtful, cutting remark, one that would either restart our fight or…even better…send me stomping down the stairs to my apartment. I threw up my hand, palm toward him, in the universal Stop gesture. “I don’t want to discuss it,” I said, “and I’m not telling you that you have to feel the same way about me. But that’s how I feel, and I don’t leave someone I love alone to struggle through however long it takes before you get mobile again. So there.”

He opened his mouth, but I wasn’t done. “Furthermore, I don’t have to be back in the classroom until January 20th, and even then, I have flexibility. And for the record, I left Chris to go to college, my break-up with Jerry was mutual, and Robert left me.” I was yelling again. Brian should at least keep his attacks factual.

Did Brian actually look abashed? Or was he starting to smile? He mumbled, “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say, Thank you, Justin.”

“Thank you, Justin.” He still looked somewhat shell shocked and paused a minute before continuing. “But living together…like this…will have to change once I can get around on my own again.”

I ignored that last sentence. I knew we had progressed through another major minefield. Brian now knew how I feel, and there was plenty of time for him to figure out his emotions. “I brought you some Thai. Do you want to get up to eat, or do you want to eat in bed?”

“Come here. I want to eat in bed.”.


	42. Chapter 42

  
Author's notes:   


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**January 4, 2014  
Saturday afternoon**

****I have to say that, if you are going have the mobility of a potted plant, you could do worse than have Justin watering you. (These meds must be fucking with my brain. That’s the lamest metaphor I ever wrote.) There is, however, never a dull moment when he’s around, and it looks like he’s going to be around for awhile.

Last night, when he came back from Mikey and Ben’s, the shit hit the fan just because I very sensibly told him to go home and get some sleep. Caring? Considerate? I thought so. Justin didn’t. We ended up nose to nose, me propped up in bed, him with his arm across me, caging me to it.

Then, out of the clear blue, he said it. Told me he loved me. Actually, he yelled it. Very romantic.

What the hell do you say when somebody does that? Just plunks down, “You’re the love of my life,” in the middle of a fight? I was speechless. Seconds later he informed me he’d be moving in until I “get mobile again,” and demanded to know where I wanted to eat my dinner. Simple as that. Is that fucked or what?

All I knew was that I needed him to shut up so I could attempt to process what I just heard. I have a pretty good track record of getting him to do that, but it mostly entails having a part of my body in contact with his mouth. I pulled him to me and kissed him. It served the dual purpose of keeping me quiet too.

I was afraid. Scared of what was taking place and afraid to tell him that when I kiss him, or lick him, or suck him, or fuck him, my guard comes down, and I forget what happens when I put my heart in someone else’s hands.

Keeping my right leg stretched out in front of me near the edge of the bed, I slid my left over and he crawled between them.

“How are we gonna do this?” he asked as he knelt, unbuttoning my shirt.

I didn’t know if, under my current circumstances, he was referring to sex or our future. I was not prepared to discuss the latter so I answered as ambiguously as I could. “Just take it slow for now. If there’s a problem, I’ll tell you.”

He had been circling my left nipple with his tongue, making it stand up right along with the goose bumps on my flesh. He pulled back for a second to look at me seriously, and I was sure he’d caught my double meaning when he replied, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Don’t worry,” I assured him. “I’m not going to let you.” His recent words came back to me again.

_“I’m not telling you that you have to feel the same way about me.”_

I don’t know what I feel. The only thing I’m sure of is what love can do. I’ve learned the hard way that it’s best to only love people and things I can control. Work, power, money, objects…Michael, Lindsay, myself.

I slipped my hands between us, undid my belt and pulled down my zipper. When I raised my torso up on my arms, he removed my pants and underwear entirely from my left side and pushed them out of the way as best he could.

“This is different,” he said, grinning slightly.

“Yeah, I guess it’s going to take a little getting used to.”

I was only semi-erect, allowing him to engulf my entire cock in his mouth. It didn’t take him long, however, to firm me up with a few agonizingly slow bobs of his head.

“You’re off to a good start,” I assured him as I thrust my pelvis forward, encouraging him to speed up the action. Justin took the hint and sucked me in fast and hard. He began deep-throating me, and each time his mouth slid down, little, muffled groans escaped from him, sending vibrations through my dick that traveled to my brain at lightening speed. My dick seemed to be asking, _How much clubbing are you going to be doing in the next month or so? How many trips to the baths? Right now you are getting head from the most talented guy who ever sucked you off. Remind me why you don’t want him around all the time._ Sometimes my dick thinks more clearly than I do.

My hands were in his hair…stroking…massaging…then forcing his head down hard as my pre-cum most assuredly coated the back of his throat. He was squirming and for a split second I was alarmed I may have hurt him. I pulled him up and off me.

“Fuck, are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he replied breathless and flushed, “are you?”

I nodded as he was digging in his jeans pocket. He produced a travel-sized packet of lube and hurriedly ripped it open with his teeth. Next, he used it to cover one of his palms and then rubbed his hands together. Keeping his eyes riveted on mine, he reached down and grasped my dick in one hand and cupped my balls with the other.

“Let’s see how much of me you can take, all right?”

Once again, I didn’t know how to answer. I had already taken far more from Justin than I ever anticipated when I spotted him on that airplane over a year ago. Since then he had pushed my boundaries past what I used to think were their limits…and he was still pushing, figuratively and literally. _Where the hell does he think we’ll end up?_

“Go,” I nodded and spread my legs wider.

He slid a hand under me and began massaging my hole, all the while continuing to stroke my cock gently. I was bracing myself on my hands again, lifting up slightly to give him a better angle, and he scooted down until he was lying between my legs.

Replacing his hand with his mouth, he sucked my dick back in while simultaneously inserting a finger into my ass. I heard myself moan as I instinctively pushed down on him. He circled a little inside of me as I felt my body and mind open up to him.

“Like that?” he asked, letting my dick momentarily fall from his lips. My eyes were shut, but he must have seen me nod.

“Do you want more?”

“Yes.” He had reduced me to one-syllable responses. As far gone as I was by this point, however, I could still hear the under-lying message he was sending.

Justin inserted a second finger and I immediately tensed. He sensed my discomfort with its invasion.

“Relax, Brian…breathe…I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just going to stay here like this,” both fingers were circling ever so slowly, inching their way toward my prostate, “until you adjust.”

I made a conscious effort to bear down and he slid up easily. The pain I initially felt was gone, replaced with an overwhelming need for…

“More.” The word was out of my mouth, and my brain didn’t register it until it came back at me. Justin sped his tongue along my dick and placed a third finger in my ass stretching me to what felt like my limit. Up until now, he has never topped me. With my ankle in a splint, it wasn’t going to happen last night, either. But knowing I could enjoy this and still want more of him inside me threatened to turn my prior notions of power and control and love on its ear. God, that felt good, but I knew it could be even better.

“Justin…stop…stop.” He looked up and eased his fingers from me gently.

He knew what I wanted without me having to say it, thank God. I always like to make sure that any guy I’m with has an experience to remember…I have a reputation to maintain, after all…but, let’s face it, a trick’s experience comes second to mine. However, as with so many other things that involved _this_ man, much of my pleasure is derived from his.

Wordlessly he rose to his knees and pulled his t-shirt over his head. Once that article of clothing was shed, he undid his jeans and pushed them off as well.

“So far, so good,” he murmured. He was stroking his dick, and watching him was causing mine to drip. “Now we just need to figure out the best way to do this without causing you a lot of needless pain. I know any amount of pressure I put on you is going to have you screaming for me to stop.”

He was right on both counts, but I was fairly certain we could get beyond it. It was becoming apparent to me that the occasional pain of having Justin here was far less than the frequent pain of his absence. I sat up and gently lifted my right leg off the bed and set my foot down on the floor. He knew where I was going with this and stood so I could maneuver. Swiveling slightly, I was able keep my left leg stretched out on the bed and lie back.

Justin was then able to straddle me while keeping his right leg and his weight on the floor. I grabbed the lube and slicked my now condom-covered dick as he positioned himself over its head. He lowered his body on to mine slowly and extremely carefully, watching my face for any sign of discomfort. Once I was in to my balls, he raised up just as gently.

“Is this working for you?” he asked.

“Better than I thought,” I answered him as I placed my hands on his hips. “You can even push a little harder if you want.”

Justin smiled, then groaned, as he brought himself down on me with a bit more force. The motion he set was sedate compared to most of our previous fucks, but it was steady, and his hand kept the same pace on his own dick. Watching him was intoxicating. Intoxicating and hot, and I admitted to myself that my need for this…for him…had become a necessity, something I relied on and wanted.

He was squirming on my dick, moving his ass, and his asshole, in circles, gasping and moaning to himself, his eyes shut, his face flushed. He was sweating and beautiful. He opened his eyes and slowed down. “Fuck, Brian, I am so selfish. It’s only been about two days since we fucked, and I’m already jumping your bones.”

“Hey, I think I’m the one that put you here.” I grabbed his hips and pushed my dick up further. “Only would you please move that ass?” The pain radiated up my leg, but I didn’t care…or rather the pain took second place to my drive to orgasm. I had to come and I had to see him come. I watched him pump his dick, his face stark with need and concentration, and I could feel my whole body clenching, tightening. Then he came, his jizz hot on my chest, and I responded, pushing hard into him. It hurt, and the groan I couldn’t control was part pain, part relief, and part pure joy.

I don’t know what the next six weeks will bring but I am willing to find out. I need him, and if I have to put up with a little (or a lot of) discomfort…so be it.

**EPILOGUE**

January 28, 2014  
Tuesday, 8:45 p.m.

Brian saw Levy today, and the cast came off. He has to wear one of those orthopedic boots for at least another month, but there’s no question that he is now mobile. He’s already had a shower since he got back from the doctor’s.

You know what mobility means: a reassessment of living together; i.e., he’s going to want to kick me out. I’ve been planning my strategy today, and I came home geared for combat. I walked in and the shower was on. I was a little annoyed – I don’t think he should have taken his first one solo when he was alone in the loft – plus I was hoping to soften him up by hardening him up while he was in there. However, the phone was ringing. What is that they say about the best-laid plans? Instead of going to holler at him, I picked it up. It was my mother.

“Oh, hi, Mom.”

“Hi, Justin. Is Brian there?

“Yeah, but he’s in the shower.”

“How’s he doing?”

“Very well. The cast is off.” Anyone who has come in contact with Brian this last month has gotten an earful of his distress at not being able to shower properly.

“Thank goodness.”

“Yeah.”

“Would you give him a message for me?”

“Of course.”

So she gave me the message, and I said Brian would call her back. Then I sat down and watched the news without really hearing or seeing anything on the TV.

When he came out of the bathroom in sweats and his new boot, I swiveled around and watched him make his way, sweats hanging sexily from his hipbones, through the bedroom and down the steps. He still has to use one crutch, until P.T. thinks he can discard it, but he is definitely able to get around on his own. I got up and met him halfway to the couch. I leaned up and kissed him and said, “Congratulations.” I smiled. I really am happy for him.

He said, “You know what this means, right?”

“No, I don’t. I thought I did, but now I’m confused.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “You’re confused? We’re going to talk about you and your numerous belongings removing yourselves so that I have room to turn around again in my loft.”

“Oh, really? Is that why my mother called? I had no idea you were interested in buying a place big enough to house an art studio. What medium are you planning on working in?”

He had the grace to look embarrassed and I had the wisdom to shut up. If he thinks he’s picking out our new place without me glued to his side, he’s sadly mistaken.


End file.
